


Iniquitous

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison does not exist, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Asexual Peter Hale, Confused Stiles Stilinski, Discrimination, Drug Withdrawal, Endgame Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Established Chris Argent/Peter Hale, Good Peter Hale, M/M, Malia does not exist, Mentioned Jackson Whittemore, Mentioned Lydia Martin, Multi, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Nothing bad happens between the main pairing, Omega Chris Argent, Omega Jackson, Omega Peter, Omega Peter Hale, Omega Stiles Stilinski, Omega Verse, Omega/Omega Relationships, Polyamory, Sexual Confusion, Withdrawal, omega omega relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:06:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9083443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: Chris and Peter are all set to make their escape from an oppressive society until they see a young omega on the news be condemned to a life they were all too familiar with. They find themselves escaping in their SUV with one extra person in tow.





	1. Chapter 1

The sheriff's omega looked up towards the camera and flashed his yellow eyes. 

His water logged hair dripped on the pavement as he crawled out onto the road. He was barely able to lift his head. One of his legs bent back in the wrong direction, the result of bailing from a moving car just seconds before it hit the water; smacking into the surface at eighty miles per hour could do that, still, he'd managed to pull himself from the river on his own and flop onto the bank like a dying fish. His eyes lingered over the camera crew. He heaved himself up into a half sitting position and barred his teeth in a muted snarl. He flipped off one of the paramedics as they approached.

The paramedics continued to inch forward as a man in a white lab coat snuck around to his wounded side. The boy raised his minuscule claws just as the lab-coated doctor raised a needle. The needle reached his neck before his slash was completed.

The boy winced. He grasped for the needle, but the doctor was already pulling it free. He swiped for the man but his claws were receding back into a set of perfectly trimmed nails. His head swayed back and forth.

The doctor crouched and slid an arm around his waist just as the omega's body went limp. His smile was far too soft to be genuine. He repositioned the boy so that his head leaned against his shoulder. The boy’s wet hair left a large wet patch on the man's clothes.

One of the emergency technicians approached and wrapped a towel around the cold, shivering body.

The boy reared up suddenly, catching both the technician and the doctor off guard. His teeth met the technician's arm, who was quick to yank his appendage from the biting mouth and slap his hand onto the wound.

The tech's eyes went scarlet, his face went red. He opened his mouth in what could only have been an alpha's roar.

The omega cowered away, unintentionally retreating back into the doctor's arms.

The doctor scooped his free arm underneath the boy's legs and lifted the angry, injured, half-drowned boy to his chest. He coddled him close like a child, not like the infuriated, intelligent, _aware_ person that he was.

Behind them the truck could still be seen, slowly submerging into the inky waters of the bay, taking with it over a million dollars worth of drugs, drugs that had been used for centuries to sedate and enslave an entire dynamic.

The television screen faded and cut to a news anchor sitting at her desk with a grim face. Her lips moved but the sounded was muted. The rolling text underneath her stated; _Sheriff unable to control omega son; court decides rehabilitation necessary. Officials say he's expected to be available for adoption by the end of next week._

“We have to save him,” said Chris. He looked away from the television momentarily to give Peter a determined look. 

The image of the news anchor changed to that of a man with tears in his eyes. He shouted at the doctor who laid the boy out on the stretcher. The man wore a police uniform. Underneath his face the words 'Sheriff Stilinski – Father' popped up.

Chris looked over at Peter, whose face was still stuffed in a book. His eyes lingered over the same page he'd been reading since the news story began. It wasn't often that an omega stole a truck, much less a truck filled with docility pills, and his interest couldn't have been more obvious. His eyes kept flicking back to the screen.

“It's not our problem,” Peter said, finally remembering to flip the page. “Let the police sort it out. It's what they're there for.”

“You don't even believe in the police. They're sending him to a _rehabilitation center_ , Peter.” He let the last few words drag from his mouth.

Peter's eyebrow twitched, but his lips were taut and his eyes stayed narrow.

“You know? The murder factories? The place that-”

Peter growled. “It _isn't_ our problem. In a week we won't even live here. We'll live in a place without rehab centers and we won't ever have to bother with it again.”

“That's enough time. We can take him with us when we go. We can save him.”

“Or they'll catch us and all three of us can share a cell and lose our minds together. Oh, maybe they'll even let us have matching straight jackets.” His eyes flashed golden for only a second before he caught his reflection in the television screen. He winced and dropped the golden gaze.

Chris flashed his own golden eyes back at him, unashamed of his true nature.

“You know what will happen to him.”

Peter rolled his eyes and looked back down at his book.

“They'll start 'treating' him.”

His grip on the book tightened.

“If he’s smart he’ll pretend it's working,” Chris continued. “After a few months, he’ll think it actually is. He’ll be released and mated with a nice alpha, and everyone will say what a lovely couple they make. Stiles will smile and say how much he _loves_ him and regrets how he behaved. They’ll get married, maybe have a couple pups, but he’ll be a shell. A few years later - maybe even a decade- he’ll feel alone, confused, and miserable. He’ll kill himself.”

The points of Peter's claws emerged and dug into the leather cover of the book. His blue eyes darkened.

“But that’s the best case scenario, really,” Chris moved closer on the sofa. “Or maybe it's the worst. He could always refuse to accept the treatment, refuse to act like he’s getting better. They’ll hit him with dose after dose until finally he’s catatonic or _dead_.”

Chris moved closer so their bodies touched. He could feel the tightness of Peter's muscles underneath his shirt. He didn't need to be a werewolf to smell the anger and fear rolling off him in a toxic stream.

“Everyone will say what a tragedy it is, how they all tried to help him,” he continued. “They’ll say he was mentally ill, disturbed, it was bound to happen one way or the other. They'll say it was _his_ fault. His or his parents. Maybe a teacher who wasn't firm enough. Maybe an omega friend who got a little too close?” He spoke directly into Peter's ear.

Peter's claws punctured the cover again, piercing straight through to the pages. He clenched his eyes shut tight and breathed through his nostrils. His shoulders shook with anger.

“Fine,” Peter said, his voice breaking. “We’ll help him.” He looked up at Chris with a glare. “But you’re risking our lives for a boy you don’t even know.”

“No. I’m risking our lives for an omega who was just like us. He's confused and scared, but he knows what's right and he knows how he feels.”

Peter scoffed and looked away.

“You admire him for what he did,” Chris pressed on. “That's ten thousand bottles of drugs, gone. There are a lot of omegas in Beacon Hills who are actually going to be able to _think_ this week. For the first time, perhaps in years.”

“And next week the drugs will be back. He won't have changed anything. What he did was stupid and unnecessarily self-sacrificial.” Peter dropped the book along with his facade of nonchalance.

He looked at the boy on screen, whose eyes had finally closed. His breathing was slow and steady in his drugged stupor. His father gently stroked his hair as he was loaded onto the ambulance. The newscast played repeat footage of the truck careening down the highway at reckless speeds before making its fateful plunge off the road and into the river. Stiles jumped from the vehicle a second before it hit the water.

“But admirable.”

*

The claustrophobic walls of the small office were littered with awards for excellence in behavior therapy. A few photos on the bookshelf showed a blonde woman standing with a group of omega boys, all of them wearing forced smiles and blue T-shirts with smiling faces on them. The pictures made Chris feel nauseous, but he swallowed it all down and hid it behind a polite and perfected smile.

The same woman from the photos entered the room carrying a coffee in one hand and a clipboard in the other. Her blonde hair had been tied back into a neat bun. In person she looked much less friendly than the photographs would lead one to believe. She glanced at the two men sitting in the arm chairs by her desk.

“Derek and Gerard?” Chris and Peter gave each other a look.

Peter's shoulders tensed. He focused on a minuscule speck of dirt underneath his claw.

Chris stood and held out his hand in greeting.

“I'm Gerard. This is Derek,” he motioned to the wolf sitting next to him. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

The woman set down her coffee and took his hand. Her grip was like that of a dead fish, cold and limp. Her nails scratched against his skin when they released.

She wiped her hand on her shirt.

“Nice to meet you as well. My name is Vivian Marconi.” Her voice didn't carry the sentiment. “I've been told one of you is interested in adopting one of our omegas?”

Chris nodded while the woman circled the desk and sat down in her chair, laying the clipboard flat on the desk. She merely glanced over it.

Chris sat and folded his hands on his lap. “Both of us, actually. We live together. I suppose I'm home more than Derek is, so he'd mainly be my responsibility.”

Vivian's lips tightened into a disapproving frown. She looked between the pair and crossed her legs. “We don't really _approve_ of that kind of relationship here. It goes against our core beliefs, you see. Alpha and omega, omega and alpha.” She knitted her fingers together in emphasize. “That is the way it should be. Especially with impressionable young ones.”

“Relationship?” Chris frowned. “I don't – oh!” he laughed. “You misunderstand. Peter is my brother. I was adopted into his family when I was thirteen. We aren't. . . you know?” He feigned an embarrassed cough. 

Peter's glare intensified, but lucky for them it worked to their advantage.

“Oh,” she said, surprised, and then covered her mouth in embarrassment. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to assume. You were just being so familiar, and your last names aren't the-”

“It's quite alright,” Peter said. His glare dropped as he flashed her an award winning smile. “We get that a lot, actually. Don't worry about it.” Underneath the desk, his hand curled into a tight, murderous fist. Chris's fingers twitched to take the hand in his own. He wished he could thumb over the back of his palm, or squeeze his fingers tight in reassurance. He would have if the woman weren't already suspicious. He settled for patting Peter's shoulder instead. His skin was basically crawling underneath the worn leather jacket.

“I was worried for a second there,” the woman admitted with a soft smile. Her tense body posture relaxed into something more casual as she looked for the first time at the clipboard on her desk. Peter shot Chris a hateful look.

Chris kept his face carefully blank.

“You're interested in . . . Stiles?” she seemed a little surprised. “May I ask why him, specifically? You know his history?” By the time Vivian looked back up they were both smiling pleasantly. Every alpha and omega in the country knew his history by now.

“We saw him on the news,” Chris explained. “He seems like an omega who could use a little help. We thought a home with two alphas would be better than a home with one. _Especially_ with his history.”

Vivian nodded.

“He's a very high-profile case. I hope you fully understand the work that's going to be necessary in helping him recover. He has one of the worst cases of identity confusion I've ever seen.” She splayed her hands helplessly across the desk.

“We understand,” Chris said, giving her a sympathetic nod. “Derek's uncle had issues like that when he was younger, too. We're not oblivious to the challenges ahead.”

Vivian turned to Peter with more interest in her eyes than before.

“Oh, is that so? So you're familiar with the rehabilitation process?”

Peter nodded.

“ _Very_ familiar with it. We just want to help another omega in need.” Peter's smiling face masked a tempest stirring and storming underneath his skin, invisible to most but not to Chris.

Vivian smiled. “I'm glad to hear that. A lot of people are in the mindset that what we're doing is cruel. They come to adopt from us to 'rescue' the omegas from harm, but then what happens?” her expression soured again. “They're left on their own, confused, and most of them end up repeating the same cycles of negative, harmful behavior that got them sent here in the first place. I'm glad I don't have to worry about that with you two.”

“Not at all.” Chris waved her off. “Please, tell us more about how we can adopt Stiles.”

“Well,” her lips pursed again. “We have one more paper for you to look over and sign. It's a lot more inclusive, mostly technicalities, and issues pertaining specifically to Stiles. He's a very special omega, you see.”

“Issues?” Chris raised a brow. “I'm aware he has behavioral problems, but-”

“Like I said before, Stiles is high profile and high risk. We'll need to schedule at least two or three home visits to ensure he's properly cared for. I know it's inconvenient, but it's absolutely vital that he stays on his medication for as long as the recovery process takes.”

“How much medication is he on?” Peter asked warily.

“Fifty milligrams a day of omega-”

“Fifty milligrams?” Peter scoffed. “He's a human not a _horse_.”

The woman looked taken aback. Her eyes narrowed sharply.

“Stiles has a long history of acting out. We aren't taking any chances with him. Once his behavior has been significantly modified we can talk about reducing his dosage. Until then, he needs all the help he can get.”

Chris internally winced. Twenty-five milligrams would have been enough to put even Peter out for the night.

“That just seems a lot.” Chris frowned. “If you think it's necessary, I suppose. We want to do what's best for him.”

The woman turned to Chris and relaxed a little back in her chair.

“Won't fifty milligrams make him catatonic? I saw on the news it's been linked with brain damage.”

“Absolutely not,” the woman assured. “Most of those news programs are paid by anti-omega pill senators reaching for more campaign votes. You have nothing to worry about. It's true, that in continuous heavy doses an omega can sometimes have negative side effects, but those cases are extremely rare. We're only doing what's necessary to help Stiles get better.”

Peter opened his mouth again but shut it soon after a look from Chris. The last thing they needed was to get discovered before they even got Stiles into their car. They were fortunate enough that his recent behavior, along with his sheriff father had significantly decreased the applicant pool.

“May we see him?” Chris asked. He was anxious to take a look at him, knowing what kind of drugs were pumping through his veins.

“Of course,” her smile returned. “Please follow me.”

The hallway leading down into the rest of the rehabilitation center was much less friendly than the cozy front desk and office. The doors they passed on either side were heavy and worn. Chris peered inside them as they passed. Each cell was the same. One to three cots lining the walls, the omegas lying listless on their beds or curled up on the floors. They wore gray sweatshirts and sweatpants with the same smiling face as the boys from the office photos. Unlike the pictures none of them were smiling.

Beside him, Peter let out a barely audible snarl.

Chris let his hand graze lightly over the wolf’s as they continued down the hall.

Peter's looked to Chris and nodded. His fists unclenched. A few flecks of blood stained the tips of his claws from where they'd poked into his skin.

The woman stopped at one of the cells and slid a magnetic key card into the door, which opened with a 'click.' A sour, musky scent emitted from the room. It was like sweat and a bad cologne mixed together and poured on a skunk.

”Good morning, Stiles,” the woman said softly. She turned to the couple behind her. “He's a little groggy this early,” she explained as she ushered them inside.

Chris entered the room first. Peter hung back by the doorway. His nostrils flared with apprehension. The strong scent of alpha musk that filled the room must have been overwhelming to his supernaturally strong nose.

A prone figure lay on a gray bed, with gray sheets, and a solitary gray pillow. The blanket was twined around his body in a tight cocoon that concealed all but the cast on his left leg. Small beads of sweat ran down his face. His cheeks were flushed pink with heat. He didn't even bother looking up as they entered the room. His eyes were half-lidded and fixated on the opposite wall.

A small amount of relief bubbled in Chris' chest. He was worried after the car crash they'd find him completely encased in bandages.

“He doesn't look so good,” said Peter.

“He's quite alright, I assure you.” Vivian tucked a strand of golden hair behind her ear. She picked up a chart that hung off the end of Stiles's bed. She checked something off and replaced it.

“Is he sedated? He doesn't seem responsive.” Chris snapped his fingers.

Stiles didn't react.

“He was having difficulty adjusting to his new home. We gave him something to calm him down and let him rest for a little while. It'll flush out of his system in a few hours and he'll be back to normal.”

“Hasn't he been here long enough to 'settle' already?” Peter asked. When Vivian turned away from him he turned his lips up in a silent snarl at her.

“No,” Vivian said, addressing Peter in a clipped tone. “The rehab process is very stressful.”

Chris moved to Stiles side. He tenderly touched the top of Stiles's head and ran his fingers through the tangled mess of short brown hairs.

Stiles grunted softly. He looked up. His eyes lost some of their glaze as they settled on Chris's face.

“Hey there buddy,” he said softly as he crouched down by the bed.

“May we have a few minutes alone with him?” Peter asked.

The worker held her clipboard tight to her chest, but after a second she nodded. “I suppose he should get used to your scent.”

Chris nodded appreciatively, and the woman left with her golden hair sweeping behind her.

Peter snarled as the door clicked shut.

“They just leave him here? Alone? And what was that about 'identity confusion'? He's not confused, he knows damn well what he wants.” Peter shoved his hands into his pockets and shot a nasty look at the door.

“Relax, we'll get him out soon.” Chris cupped Stiles's face and turned his head up.

Stiles's eyes were already unfocused. His lips were trembling and his skin was warm.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

Stiles either wasn't willing or wasn't capable of responding. His mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. He was practically limp. His eyes squinted a little harder but aside from that he made no movement.

“Jesus Christ, how much did they give this kid?” Peter's unease was palpable as he shifted his weight onto another foot. He kept glancing through the narrow window in the door.

Chris grimaced. “As much as he could take, it looks like.” He looked around.

The source of the musky smell was a white box sitting on the night stand directly adjacent to Stiles bed. It had been nailed into its position permanently in the middle of the end table. He saw them marketed on television a few times as 'natural sleep aides,' or 'calming solutions.' The thought of it made him gag.

Anyone who knew better would know that all it was doing to poor Stiles was putting every single one of his little nerves on edge. It might make him behave a little more calmly, but in the same way a mouse would slow down in the presence of a cat. He could sense a predator near, but didn't know where it was coming from, or why it's smell was so strong.

Peter eyed the machine distastefully. Their hormone blockers prevented them from having any reaction to the scents, but the sheer memory of the times they hadn't was enough to agitate him.

“Can we take him and run, now?” Peter asked, crossing his arms and tapping his foot impatiently.

“No,” Chris said. “We have to get them to give us Stiles willingly. We'll have more time that way. If we take him now we might not get out of the city before they put out a manhunt for us.” Peter snarled, but he knew Chris was right. He looked sympathetically at the omega on the bed.

“What if your identification doesn't work? What if someone finally realizes that 'Gerard Argent' has been dead for six years?” Chris closed his eyes and took another breath. He felt Stiles pulse. It was steady, at least if not a little sluggish, and that was good. Not great but good.

“Well, then I suppose I'll see you at camp.” He smiled bitterly. “They'll realize they're fake sooner or later, we just have to hope 'later' happens once we're already in New York.”

Peter sighed. He leaned up against the wall, unwilling to walk any further into the room. After several minutes the woman returned.

“Gerard? Derek? I have your papers ready for you to sign.”

“Are you still certain he's the one you want?”

Chris looked down at Stiles's face.

“We'll be back soon,” he whispered softly, before standing and following Peter out the door. To the woman he said, “yes, he's the one we want.”


	2. Chapter 2

The paperwork was just as boring as Vivian said it would be. Chris glanced over each and every page as if he actually planned on following through. He even stopped and asked a few details about which doctors to use, which behaviors to watch out for, and what side effects they should expect with Stiles's medication.

Finally, both he and Peter signed their names on the bottom line and it seemed the nightmare was almost over.

“I'll just need to see your Alpha identification cards before you leave with him.” Vivian held her hand out expectantly.

Peter offered up his own.

She took it and swiped it against the small hand-held machine. After a second it blinked green.

“Perfect,” she said, handing it back with a smile.

“Now yours?” she looked to Chris.

“You already took mine, why do you need his?” Peter gruffed. He was always cautious about Chris using his card, because sooner or later someone would realize that it should have been canceled several years ago.

The woman stiffened and tightened her grip on the clipboard. “It's just policy. If it-”

“It's fine,” Chris said, placing his card into her hands.

She took that one as well, oblivious to the tension of the pair in front of her. She swiped.

They held their breaths.

The machine turned green.

Vivian smiled at them. “Great, now that that's settled I'll have one of the caretakers bring him out. He's probably still a little sleepy, but he should be fully awake in the next few hours or so. Our first visit will be a surprise, but expect us to come calling sometime within the next seven days.”

Chris nodded and reluctantly pocketed the bottle of pills she handed to him.

“He's already had one today, so give him one before he goes to bed. If he's resistant you may have to put it in his food.”

Chris repressed a grimace. As if being forcibly drugged wasn't bad enough.

He and Peter waited with little patience for Stiles to be brought to them. It wasn't longer than a few minutes before a man in blue scrubs appeared, hauling Stiles along beside him.

Stiles hardly seemed aware.. He blinked tired, sleepy eyes and let himself be supported almost entirely by the man dragging him along. He walked with a slight limp due to the cast around his leg.

“Be careful,” the caretaker cautioned as he passed him off to Peter. “He's a biter.”

Peter smiled, but his hands tightened around the boy.

They led the Stiles out to their car, patiently letting him limp along at his own pace. He said nothing as they walked. His eyes were distant and glassy. They helped him into the backseat of the car and let him lie down, with his casted leg hanging off the seat. It was disturbing to see him climb so willingly into a stranger's car. Not once did he protest or question what was happening. He was a far cry from the spiteful omega they'd seen on T.V. hissing and snarling at anyone who came too close.

Peter put a blanket over him and brushed a few stray strands of hair from his eyes.

Stiles just continued to stare up at the ceiling with unfocused eyes.

As Peter helped Stiles settle into the car Chris listened to Vivian as she went on and on about training schedules, meal plans, and what to expect in the coming days. She handed over a box of Stiles's things which contained only medication, a few photographs, and some clothes that all bore the same, smiling face.

Chris took the box and shook the woman's hand. He told Vivian how wonderful it was to meet her and how much they hoped to have Stiles improved by the time the center workers came to visit. Even Peter leaned out of the car and waved as they rolled out of the parking lot.

“You're happy,” Chris pointed out as soon as they were safely in the privacy of their own car and out of sight of the rehab center.

Peter's claws threatened his skin no longer and he managed to relax in his seat. He ran a hand through his hair.

“I'm relieved,” he said. “For now. We've got maybe four or five hours before they realize those papers are fake and so are our names. What do you want us to do when there's a nationwide search for that boy?” he motioned with his head towards the backseat.

“We'll be out of state soon. It'll be harder for them to find us and once we get to New York they won't have any legal right to take him away.”

“I hated being in that place,” Peter said. “I could smell them. All of them. I could smell their fear, their hate, their confusion.” He shuddered. “I hope this boy is worth all of that to you.”

Chris cast a backwards glance to Stiles, who lay listlessly underneath the blankets. “He is.”

Peter wrinkled his nose. “We're burning these clothes once we get to New York. I _hate_ alpha musk.”

They kept the radio tuned in to the news channel, just waiting for someone to realize the man who'd signed Stiles documents was a nineteen year old living in Mexico, and the one who carried him out of the door had been dead for six years.

*

Several minutes turned to hours as the California highways gave way to backwoods Nevada roads. The trees faded to cacti and the dirt and grass turned to dry sand and hard earth. The sun beat down on the car with it's blistering heat. The cheerful chirping of birds in the trees became a lone hawk circling overhead. Still, Stiles had not awoken. The digital clock on the dashboard read '4:37 p. m.' in glowing green letters. Not a word had come through the news about any missing omegas.

“'Exhibits eye flashing, and other behaviors unbecoming of an omega his age,'” Peter read. He flipped through the manilla folder given to them by Vivian. It was a thick one.

“What a menace. Lock up your children.” Chris smiled.

As the time passed he couldn't help but to keep casting backwards glances at the boy to see if he had moved. He was still piled up underneath the many blankets they provided for him. Every so often they'd hear a quiet, whimpering groan or see the blankets shift a little in one direction but that was about the only sign of life they'd had from him.

"He should have woken up by now. Maybe they gave him too much. What if he's already catatonic?" Chris worried.

Peter grimaced. “We leave him on the side of the road and pat ourselves on the back for trying?”

“I’m serious, Peter. We should pull over soon and take a look at him. If nothing else give him some water. Poor guy's probably dehydrated.”

“We’ll pull over at the next gas station and you can take a look at him. We're getting low on gas, anyways,” Peter said.

Thankfully, the radio thus far had been silent. No one realized an omega was missing from a center, and that was both a blessing and curse. It wouldn't be long before someone figured it out. By tomorrow morning at least the security checks would come back negative, and they'd officially be fugitives.

They drove along another mile before they found a small gas station out in the derelict desert. Chris pulled up and put the car in park. “I'll fill her up, you go get some energy drink or something for him.”

Peter sighed dramatically. He stepped out of the vehicle and stretched his arms above his head. “I always have to run errands. It's never 'oh, no, let me do it, Peter.'”

“You wouldn't let me if I offered,” Chris said, with a small smile.

As of yet the news of Stiles's adoption hadn't even broke. They were fortunate that stiles had incited several other incidents of pharmaceutical theft and destruction. The sudden rise in the omega crime rate had momentarily taken the limelight off of him.

Chris lowered the windows of the vehicle, letting in some of the arid desert air. In the rearview mirror he saw another shift in the blankets. He turned around just in time to see Stiles’s eyes peering out at him, they were still half-lidded but the glossiness was gone.

“Hey,” Chris said softly. “Peter’s inside getting you a drink, alright? You'll feel better soon.”

Stiles head lolled back against the seat. He squinted his eyes and slugged his way up onto his elbows, kicking the blankets away in the process. He looked at Chris again and rested his head against the door. He closed his eyes and took a few puffing breaths.

Chris reluctantly got out of the car and went to the gas pump. He was eager to get Stiles checked out but there were sure to be cameras keeping an eye on him. The less exposure they had the better.

Chris kept an eye on Stiles while he refilled the tank. Other than his halfhearted attempt at propping himself up Stiles didn't make any movements. He went almost completely still, sitting cramped in the space between the seat and the door.

Chris’s body tensed as he heard footsteps quickly approaching from behind. He kept his hands in his pockets and his head lowered. He tightened his grip on the nozzle.

“It's just me,” said a familiar voice from behind.

Chris sighed. “Don't sneak up on me like that.” He turned around and saw Peter clutching a black and green can in one hand and a bottle of aspirin in the other.

“I was hardly sneaking,” Peter said. “I’m not entirely sure what teenagers are drinking these days so I just grabbed the one with the most dramatic name,” he held up the can. _Toxic Shock,_ it read in electric blue letters.

“We want to wake him up, not kill him. You couldn't have grabbed something a little more nutritious? Like a vitamin water?” Chris pulled the nozzle from the gas tank and placed it back in its proper location. He paid quickly with a credit card that belonged to someone who hadn't been smart enough to cancel it when it disappeared.

“There’s water in the car,” Peter defended. Suddenly his expression changed. His nostrils flared and his eyes darkened. “Speaking of our lovely young companion - where is he?”

“What?” Chris turned back around.

Stiles was gone. The door on the other side of the car was still open just an inch. Chris tried not to panic. He looked at the ground below the door. A few footsteps stood out amongst the dry dirt. He followed the steps with his eyes towards the building. They disappeared behind it. The steps were staggered and lurching as they made their way.

“He smells close,” Peter observed. “He didn't get far.”

“How could he get anywhere? He was unconscious.”

“Not really,” Peter mused. “His heartbeat was irregular for the past half hour, so was his breathing.”

“You couldn't have mentioned that sooner?” Chris snapped, feeling a tug of annoyance. By now, he should have realized Peter never told all that he knew. He was always holding on to some little tidbit or fact that could change an entire situation for better or worse.

“He's still drugged, disoriented, and more than likely overwhelmed. I didn’t think he’d try running out the door and even if he did he can’t get far, now can he?”

Chris pursed his lips and started to follow the trail on the ground back behind the store. “Just let me do the talking, alright?”

Peter merely shrugged and followed after him.

Stiles was easy to spot where he sat, slumped against the wall. His cheeks were flushed pink and he was staring up at the sun. He looked hot in his sweatshirt and sweatpants, which were now coated in dust. For the first time Chris realized he was barefoot, one small foot stuck out from underneath the bottom of his pants. His limbs trembled with chemically induced weakness. It wasn't surprising he could barely keep his head up. The drugs were meant to make him weak, docile, and very little else. Chris knew what those drugs could be like, he and Peter both did.

Stiles head jerked swiftly to the side in a sudden motion. He lifted his cracked lips and bore two, sharp canines at them. He growled low and warningly. His eyes flashed honey in a threat that held little sway over Chris's training and Peter's innate ability.

Chris felt a pang of sympathy for the boy, doing the best to defend himself against what he viewed as two much bigger, opposing forces. _He still thinks we're alphas,_ he realized.

“Stiles, it's okay,” Chris said, holding up his hands. He did his best not to sound patronizing. “I'm not here to hurt you.”

Stiles watched him cautiously but made no movement to run.

Chris went down onto his knees so that he and Stiles were on eye level. He extended a hand out to the frightened omega. The blockers he took that morning prevented his natural omega scent from being too prevalent anywhere on his body, but his wrist and throat were too close to the bloodstream not to contain some of the scent.

Behind him he could feel Peter's eyes on his back.

Stiles watched him like a fox pinned in a corner. His tense body coiled tight like a spring. He moved forward hesitantly on pale, shaky limbs. He sniffed at the wrist offered to him.

Chris gave him his most nonthreatening smile. “Good, now we can- Fuck!"

Stiles lurched forward, clamping his teeth down around his wrist. A dozen spikes of pain shot down Chris's arm. He winced and gritted his teeth.

“Chris!” Peter growled nastily. His claws jutted from their sheaths as he moved to strike his mate's attacker.

The boy’s snarls deepened and he dug in deeper, nearly breaking the skin.

"Don't touch him!" Chris hissed, seizing Stiles by the back of neck. Instead of pulling him off he pushed his head down further and twisted his arm, forcing Stiles's teeth to break skin. He held on for a second longer until he was sure his scent would issue forth. Stiles recoiled from it. Chris willingly released him, drawing back his bloody limb.

He grimaced at the blood dripping from his wrist. Stiles caretakers words came back to him; _be careful, he's a biter._ Clearly, he'd had lots of practice mangling things with his teeth. Despite his experience, the marks were dull, not nearly as bad as they could have been. He was lucky Stiles possessed the dull canines of a human and not those of a wolf. He'd felt Peter’s fangs against his body before, and even without intending to cause pain they left a mark worse than Stiles had.

Stiles wiped his mouth distastefully on his sleeve. He spat out the blood that managed to make its way into his mouth. His eyes turned on Chris in curious suspicion. Beside them Peter watched with guarded posture, ready to interfere if Stiles tried striking out again.

"You're an omega?"he asked once he'd regained his composure. His voice was dry and cracked, in matching with his sallow skin.

Chris let his blue eyes bleed golden in confirmation. "I am an omega." He held up his blood coated wrist, letting Stiles catch another whiff of his scent. Then he wiped his stinging skin on his shirt.

This answer seemed to perplex more than relieve Stiles.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, eyeing the idling car at the gas pump.

“I will explain in the car. Right now, we've got to get out of here.” They'd already spent too much time away from the radio. If alerts had gone out calling for the return of Stiles then they were in much greater danger of being spotted at the gas station then they were on the open highway. After all the risk they'd put themselves in to get the boy he wasn't about to let them get caught for taking too long at a gas station. Chris stood. “Come with me,” he held out his uninjured arm for Stiles hand.

“No,” Stiles said solidly.

_”No?”_ Peter scoffed. “What do you mean _'no'_?”

“I'm not getting in a car with you until you tell me where we are, and where you're taking me.” Stiles eyelids drooped a little as he rested his head against the wall.

“We're taking you to New York. Right now we're in Nevada.” Chris reached his hand out again in an attempt to help Stiles to his feet.

Stiles defiantly used the wall to lift himself up instead. He swayed a little with his lopsided weight, due large in part to the cast covering his leg. There were a few scratch marks now etched down the side, as if Stiles had tried to remove it himself with his claws.

“And I'm just supposed to trust that you're telling the truth? Waking up in the back of a car isn't all that reassuring. Omega or not, I don't know you.” He flicked his eyes to Peter, standing between them. “I don't know _him_ either.”

“My name is Chris. His name is Peter. We're omegas, like you. We saw you on the news and we want to help you, that's why we're heading to New York. We want to get you somewhere safe.”

Stiles looked at Peter again. Peter was as much like an omega as a wolf was to a deer. He shared the scent and eyes, but that was where his similarity to the rest of his dynamic ended.

“He's an omega, too?” Stiles didn't seem convinced.

“Him too,” Chris nodded. “Show him, Peter.”

Peter’s light eyes darkened until they were warm like whiskey. It only lasted for a second - Peter hated his omega eyes, hated the honey-colored lenses they forced him to look through – but it was there.

Stiles's shoulders relaxed just a little with the sight.

"Only by faulty genetics, so behave yourself," Peter warned as his eyes turned blue once more.

Stiles let out a rumblec warning of his own. His growl reverberated in his throat. He stared back at Peter undaunted.

Chris felt a sliver of pride in his chest. It was good to know that in the short while they had them the rehab center had done little to soften his fighting spirit.

“Well that's all well and good, but I still don't trust you Chris and Peter.”

Chris ran his hand through his hair. The resilience – though admirable – was getting to be a problem.

“You took me from the rehabilitation center and drove me out into the middle of nowhere. I don't know how, but you did.”

“If you're feeling homesick we could always take you back. I'm sure they have a lovely little syringe with your name on it,” Peter said, sticking his hands in his pockets. He looked back towards the car.

“I'm not entirely certain you don't have one for me.” Stiles swayed on his feet. He nearly toppled but caught himself on the wall just before he fell.

Chris put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Surprisingly, Stiles didn't shrug it off. Though maybe he just wasn't so eager to meet the ground.

"You alright?" Chris asked when Stiles balance wavered.

"I'm fine," he said. Even through the layered material of his sweatshirt Chris could tell he was freezing. He could feel small tremors running through his shoulders, tremors that were growing in intensity as every second passed.

"You won't be soon," Peter commented dryly, sniffing at the boy.

“Are you threatening me?” Stiles asked with a glare and a flash of his eyes. “Because I'm pretty sure I could-”

“Children,” Chris interrupted firmly. He motioned towards the security camera. “This isn't the place to be fighting. Stiles,” he addressed the boy, reclaiming his attention. “We need to get you back in the car. I can tell you don't want to be touched - I don't blame you for that - but soon your symptoms are going to get a lot worse, very quickly, and I'd rather not have to drag you.”

“Symptoms? Symptoms of what?” His suspicion only doubled, but his strength weakened. The hand he used to keep himself upright started to slip down the wall. Peter stepped closer and put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Stiles might have rejected it, if his body hadn't chosen that moment to renew its trembling.

“You know very well what. That lovely concoction of chemicals running through your veins,” Peter said, giving a light poke to Stiles forehead. “They don't just make you docile they make you _dependent_. You might be lucid now but it's only temporary. Soon you'll be shaking and shivering with withdrawal, and by then we won't need to ask you to get in the car; you'll either do it mindlessly at the first suggestion, or we'll just carry you while you're too weak to say 'no.'

“But, I suppose if you really don't want to, we can leave you here and let you call those nice men with the smiling T-shirts, and they can come pick you up and take you back to your nice little cell, with the scent diffusers, and a candy dish full of painkillers and pheromone triggers.”

Stiles face went from aggressive to fearful as he listened to Peter talk.

“Okay,” he finally relented with a breath. “But only because anywhere is better than that _place_. I still don't trust you.” The shakes were beginning to crawl back over him again.

“Nobody said you had to,” Chris cautiously wrapped his arm around Stiles waist and led him back towards the car. They kept their heads down as they passed the cameras. Stiles crawled into the backseat without complaint.

Chris gathered the mountain of blankets and pillows from the trunk and put them in the backseat.

“Should I be concerned that you're trying to smother me?” Stiles asked with a raised brow.

“You're going to need them.”

“Trust you?”

“Trust me.” He gave Stiles a small smile and shut the car door. As Peter started the car Chris could feel Stiles's eyes fixated on the back of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the nice comments and kudos <3


	3. Chapter 3

Chris nosed into the fellow omegas throat. It was such a sweet, ripe smell. He preferred it vastly over the musk and bitterness of an alpha assaulting his nose. In contrast, omegas were subtler, softer, just all around better. Peter's scent was unusually light today and just a touch chemical. His skin was warm, smooth, much more slender than he remembered too. He trailed his hand down the warm, firm bodies side to his hip. He trilled lightly into his partner's ear, pulling him closer to his chest, digging his fingers lightly into his hip. The omega in his arms trilled back, only instead of the warm, persuasive voice he'd come to be familiar with it was a light, airy sound. The being in his arms nestled closer, letting out a soft sigh. 

It wasn't Peter.

_Oh shit,_ he thought, eyes shooting open. He jerked his arms back from Stiles half awakened form. 

Stiles grunted and opened his eyes. 

The memories flooded back to Stiles at the same moment. He gasped and jumped up, scrambling back to the window with the blanket clutched tight to his chest.

They stared at each other in wide-eyed bewilderment, before Chris coughed uneasily behind his hand.

“Good morning, Stiles,” he tried to greet nonchalantly. 

“Morning,” he muttered back. He drew his good leg up to his chest and leaned his head down on the knee, hiding a little behind it. Chris tried to ignore the ever growing presence of Stiles pheromones leaking into the air. He noticed all of the car windows had been rolled down, and wondered for how long Stiles scent had been releasing into the air. His happy, hormonal scent.

“You look good,” Chris commented, observing his unshaken body.

“huh?” Stiles turned his head up again. A little pink dusted his cheeks.

“You look better.” Chris amended. “You're not shaking as much.”

“Oh,” Stiles laughed awkwardly. “I still feel,“ he extended his fingers and curled them back experimentally. “I still feel awful,” his hands struggled to retain the curled shape.

“That's normal,” Chris nodded. “It's okay, Stiles. You're going to be okay.” He patted Stiles naked shoulder reassuringly.

“Where's Peter?” Stiles glanced around. 

A hand raised up from the passenger seat of the car and waved to them.

“Good morning, my lovely fugitives,” Peter called cheerfully from where he reclined in the passenger seat of the car. He had a portable radio resting on his chest and a headphone in one year. “You'll be happy to know that the authorities have figured out it was omegas who took Stiles, the ID's we used were fake, and I'm sure they'll be on to our true identities any minute now. If they aren't already.”

Stiles froze up. 

Chris groaned and rubbed his temple. “Could you have waited to say that until after we woke up a little?”

“No.”

“Well I guess it's a good thing we have extra license plates, hm?” He leaned over the chair to kiss Peter on the forehead. Peter grumbled but reciprocated the gesture with a kiss of his own.

“I have to piss,” Stiles complained loudly, suddenly eager to get out of the car.

“Pretty sure I saw a tree outside somewhere,” Peter said pointedly waving him off. His hand wound itself into the back of Chris's shirt as he tried to pull away. 

“Are you okay to get out of the car on your own?” Chris asked, looking back at the boy and ignoring Peter's grabs for attention.

“Uuuuh,” Stiles shifted his body around experimentally. “I think I've got it. I still feel like I've got a hangover though. If I'm not back in like ten minutes-”

“-We'll leave without you and you can suffer.”

“Thank you, Peter. I can tell you're just the _best_ person.” The two exchanged looks Chris pretended not to see.

Chris helped Stiles get out of the car and onto his uninjured leg. He didn't seem to be having any trouble walking on his own without use of crutches, so Chris let him walk off by himself towards the shady brush. While they waited for him to come back Peter and Chris changed the license plate.

“So, how bad is it really?” Chris asked as he held the metal plate while Peter screwed it in place with his claws. He watched Stiles disappear behind a tree and out of hearing distance.

“Stiles father has been detained by the authorities. They want him to give up Stiles's location.”

“They think he had something to do with it?” Chris raised a brow.

“They're _certain_ he had something to do with it. It makes sense – he was always outspoken about omega rights and conversion therapy.” Peter grimaced. “We can't tell him.”

“He'll hear it.”

“I'll use the portable radio, listen to it that way.”

“No, even if you did that Stiles would figure it out once we got to New York; then he'd be upset _and_ hate us for lying to him.” 

Peter sighed.

“You never want to do things my way. Things are so much easier my way.”

Chris smiled. “Maybe in the short run, long-term you've got a very poor track record.” 

Their conversation quieted as they heard Stiles limping up from behind.

“Not to be a pest or anything but I literally haven't eaten all day, or all of last day. Any chance you've got food in one of those boxes up there?”

“We should have brought a coffee maker,” Chris said, more to himself than anyone else. Addressing Stiles he said, “we've got granola bars and dry cereal. Take your pick.” 

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “What kind of cereal?”

“The healthy kind. Don't even bother with Chris. He's boring.” Peter said it derisively, giving his love a glare. “Do you want to drive, or should I?” Peter asked, holding out the keys to the van.” 

“I will,” Chris volunteered. 

“I can drive,” Stiles piped up. “My right legs not in a cast, I can help.” He grinned enthusiastically. 

Chris paused. He thought about it and then shook his head. “I appreciate the offer. But you'd better keep resting. You might feel better now, but we don't know how much of whatever they put in you is still there.” Stiles frowned.

“But I want to help,” Stiles insisted. 

“I know, but there's not much that you can do right now.”

“Fine,” Stiles said. His shoulders slumped. 

Peter put the seats back up and helped Stiles back into the car while Chris took up the wheel. Chris's hand hovered over the radio controls.

“Listen,” he turned back to look at Stiles. “Those people on the radio might say some bad things about you, us . . . anyone, really. Don't listen to it. They just want ratings. It's not true, okay?”

“Like what kinds of things?”

Chris chose his words carefully. “Accusing things. Assuming things. Just remember it isn't true. They don't know you, your family, or your story.” He turned back around and flicked on the radio. In the mirror he could see Stiles frown out of the window. It wasn't long before the sounds of an angry man came from the small machine on the dash.

_”-this is what happens when an omega can't control their own emotions. 'Stiles'-_ ” Stiles head jerked up at the mention of his name, “ _-caused hundreds of thousands of dollars in property damage, put lives at risk, and injured not only himself but the pride of his parent._ Stiles winced. 

Chris turned the radio down several notches. He needed to be able to hear it, in case the police started closing in but Stiles didn't have to listen to it. He hadn't expected things to start off so harshly so suddenly. It appeared the news had already disregarded facts and resorted to presenting their own opinions. 

Peter rubbed his temples. 

The man on the radio continued to speak, his voice low and gritty. 

“ _The first thing that happens to a distressed omega is that they lose all sense of self preservation. Driving a truck into a lake-”_

Chris looked back to see Stiles reaction. He was biting into his lip so hard he was just a second away from breaking the skin. 

“It's not true, remember?” 

"They found out fast,” Stiles said with a forced laugh. Chris nodded, hoping they at least wouldn't mention his father again. 

“Well it is an election year,” Peter remarked coolly. He opened one eye and turned his head to look back at Stiles. “Everyone wants to make a big deal out of nothing.” He waved one hand in the air dismissively and closed his eyes again. 

“What I did wasn't 'nothing,'” Stiles eyes narrowed. “I-” 

“You tried to help your suffering friend. You didn't hurt anyone and the only damage you caused was destroying a truck and a few thousand date rape drugs. It's not as if you ran over any old ladies. From what I saw you had the traffic patterns mapped out well enough to avoid even putting other motorists at risk,” once again the creeping pride entered Chris's voice. “To save your friend.” 

Stiles gave an exhausted sigh. “Jackson wasn't even really my friend. He was an asshole but he was an asshole by choice.” 

“So what really happened to him?” Peter asked. 

Stiles already miserable face scrunched up, but his eyes left the radio. He looked pensively down at his hands. 

“He presented a lot later than any of our peers. It didn't matter though, everyone just _knew_ he was going to be an alpha. There was no question. He was aggressive, a loud mouth, demanding. Every stereotypical sign there is that someone was going to become an alpha, he had it. He was even dating the prettiest omega girl in the whole high school. Lydia and Jackson were the poster children for perfect alpha-omega couple.” 

“But then-?” 

Stiles slumped back in his seat. 

“Jackson didn't show up to school for a week. When he did show up he was three hours late and furious. He marched right up to Lydia and said it was _her_ fault he became an omega. He said she somehow _infected_ him with her genes. He just kept raving about how Lydia ruined his life. Lydia was crying. Everyone tried to get Jackson to stop yelling, but he _wouldn't_. Not until our coach took him down.” 

Chris remembered hearing the story on the news. It wasn't a large one, not like Stiles had been, but their was a blurb shortly before the channel changed to sitcoms about how a local high school omega had panicked and tried attacking another omega at school. It was odd how the boy was suddenly 'an omega' and not just 'a boy.' Days later his face reappeared as the happy recipient of chemical therapy. His eyes were listless as he stood next to his father. His face was a shell. Even his head looked like it weighed too much for his body as he held it tilted to one side while his parent spoke. 

For a minute Stiles was quiet. He opened and shut his mouth a few times before he found the words he wanted to speak. 

“He came back to school another week after that happened,” he continued. “His parents put him on that drug, the same one I was on. You might have seen the news about it? His dad was a lawyer, so it got some attention. Anyways, the Jackson that came back wasn't Jackson anymore. The coach said he could still play lacrosse, even if he was an omega, but Jackson said he _didn't care_. Lacrosse was the most important thing in Jackson's life, but all he wanted to do was just . . . sit. 

“I don't know why, but, I kept trying to provoke him. I pushed him in the hallway, I made him drop his books in class. I swore at him. I damaged his car. All he did was _stare_ at me. It was like he didn't see me, or recognize me. It was like he didn't even know who I was. When I keyed up his car all he did was . . . he _cried_. But not because of his car. He told our teacher I was being mean to him. He loved that car. It was his pride and joy. 

“I guess I just kind of snapped after that. I hated seeing what those drugs did to him. It wasn't him. I wanted the old, evil, narcissistic Jackson back. I would have gladly taken a punch if it meant he would get that stupid blank stare off his face.” 

“I understand,” Chris nodded. “He was still your friend.” 

“No, I hated Jackson. But I hated him when he was Jackson. I don't know what to feel about him now that he's not.” 

“I wouldn't beat yourself up over it,” Peter once again joined in. “Young relationships are hard. Was he your first love?” 

“What? No,” Stiles furrowed his brows. He got all flustered as he floundered around for his words. Chris shot Peter a disapproving look. Peter hadn't even bothered to open his eyes, but there was a smirk on his face. “Jackson wasn't my first love,” Stiles blinked. “I didn't- I mean I'm not- I don't really . . . you know? I wasn't in love with Jackson. I-I've never been in love before.” There was something off about the way he said the word 'love' with a little more kick to it then the rest of his sentence. Peters smirk only widened. 

“I see,” he mused. “Well, forgive me for assuming things then.” 

“Hey, Peter? Are you and Chris . . .?” he let the sentence hang in the air. Peter reached over and took Chris's hand in his own, letting his fingertips lightly glide over the back of his palm. Chris smiled and returned the affectionate gesture, turning his hand over and squeezing lightly. 

We've been together for a very long time.” 

Stiles settled back into his seat after that. He looked pensively out the window. 

Chris watched as the dry plains turned into green grass fields. The orange sky blued, and the morning chirps of the birds turned into the mechanical sound of roaring engines and the occasional honk as the road filled with fellow motorists. It was good they had changed the license plates; the radio was broadcasting the previous one every fifteen minutes. 

In addition to the alerts the radio was also airing interviews from doctors, therapists, psychologists, and the like who all had their own take on why Stiles had chosen to go on his rampage. If the police knew – which they likely did – who Chris and Peter were, they hadn't shared it with the general public yet. 

A politician was the main focus of the interview at the moment. His words were mostly hate speech, and what little reason he gave in between the propaganda was anecdotal evidence about how omegas are statistically happier when with an alpha partner. He conveniently ignored that the very articles he cited were from the early nineteen hundreds. 

Stiles tensed each time the radio mentioned his name, which was happening regrettably often. The politician spread his lies for little over an hour, referring to Stiles as an 'abomination,' and a 'failure of the system.' 

Stiles lips trembled when the conversation was joined by a psychologist, who insisted it was a lack of omega parenting that made Stiles so uncontrollable, but when Chris tried to comfort him Stiles laughed and said the words didn't bother him. His laugh was broken and forced. 

“How do your families feel about it?” Stiles asked when listening to the radio became too much. His eyes were on their still intertwined hands. “About the two of you?” 

“My family doesn't ask questions. Chris's family is dead.” 

Chris looked over at Peter and raised a brow. “ 

At least that's what we like to pretend.” The werewolf leaned back in the chair with his hands crossed over his stomach. He let his eyes fall shut apathetically. “As far as any of them are concerned, we're just roommates.” 

“How did you two meet?” 

“We met at one of those horrible camps,” Peter waved his air in the air and let it drop back down to his side. 

_Chris was surprised he answered the question at all. Mostly Peter refused to acknowledge the event ever happened. It wasn't often he felt confident enough to share their story with a stranger._

“My _lovely_ sister thought they could 'help' me,” he continued with an eye-roll. 

“At least she had good intentions. My father was just an asshole who didn't want to care for an omega son.” Chris tongue soured even mentioning his father. As far as he was concerned the man had been dead since the day he presented in high school. 

“Your families sent you away?” Stiles asked, his fingers curling uncomfortably into the blanket. “Willingly? Why would they do that?” 

“Because when we were your age, the depression and suicide rates were chalked up to 'confusion' and 'lack of help' not, 'lack of understanding.' Things aren't much better now, but at least depression and suicide are taken more seriously,” Chris explained. He thought of the listless omegas back inside the care center. It didn't feel like much had changed at all. 

"Will you tell me about how you met?” Stiles asked. There was something hopeful about the way he said it. If it kept Stiles from listening to the angry voices on the radio Chris would tell Stiles anything he wanted to know, but he doubted Peter would be so willing. He waited to see what Peter would say. Peter, who so rarely took kindly to strangers. Despite his grumbling about Stiles earlier he seemed uncommonly accepting of his presence. 

“Fine,” Peter greed. “But then, you answer one of my questions, deal?” 

“Okay,” Stiles agreed, not knowing he'd made a deal with the devil. 

“Like I said before, we met in one of those awful rehabilitation camps that made your 'facility' look like a day spa. They were more like a cult than anything else. They always claimed they didn't believe in medicine but they still pumped alpha musk into the air because it was 'all-natural.' For some omegas it did have the calming effect they hoped for, but if you can't stand the smell, well then . . . “ Peter paused. The space in his words was filled by the angry radio voice bashing any sort of relationship that didn't consist of one strong, alpha model, and one submissive, omega model. 

“The opposite.” Chris finished for him, before Stiles could tune into it. 

Peter gave Chris a look. “Don't you have any respect for the art of storytelling?” 

"When you actually get to the story, yes, I do.” Chris smiled lightly. 

Peter tsk'd at him. 

“Basically, the place was hell on earth. Everyone smelled like alpha piss and part of the daily 'therapy' was grabbing another omega and hugging them to repress your natural urges while the counselors sang songs about loving your own dynamic, peace on earth, you get the deal.” 

“They made you hug each other?” Stiles raised a skeptical brow. His eyes left the radio and settled on Peter's face. The news anchor had moved on from tearing apart the his family relations to speaking about how children and teenagers in general needed firm discipline, especially after presenting. 

“Peter's hugs were more 'hump' then 'hug,'” Chris chuckled. “Only the counselors complained about it. Some of them were omegas too and after Peter was put in solitary for the ninth time they started assigning his sessions to only counselors and not other omegas.” 

“Chris, please. You're telling the story all wrong. There's no suspense the way you say it. This is our _love_ story, and when are we going to have another chance to tell it to such an enraptured audience?” 

_“I'm not enraptured,” Stiles said defensively._

Peter chuckled. 

“The counselor I was assigned to hug volunteered, actually. He was another omega. He always was a little awkward and his hugs were just a bit too . . . passionate.” Peter smirked. “I made some comments about that that turned his face red. He tried saying he wasn't but you can feel everything when you're that close. It wasn't really worth the effort trying to hide. I personally never really had any interest in those things but it made everyone so _uncomfortable_. It was a good way to pass the time.” 

“So . . . the omega counselor- who was there to convince omegas not to be attracted to omegas -was attracted to omegas?” 

“I don't blame him, really,” Peter said with a proud curl of his lips. “I'm very attractive. He didn't quite like what I was whispering in his ears though. Actually, I'm sure he liked it quite a lot, but not enough to risk being terminated.” 

“Now you're just being narcissistic.” Chris took his hand off the wheel to shake a finger at Peter. 

In the backseat Stiles smiled. 

“Someone like me deserves to be narcissistic. Any thing else would just be delusion.” 

“You are delusional.” 

“It isn't delusion when it's true.” Peter's smirk deepened. 

“You still haven't told me how you met yet,” Stiles complained from the backseat. 

“Ah, right.” Peter went back to his story. “The counselor got upset and told one of the alpha supervisors what happened. They deemed me too unfit for group sessions, and put me in one-on-one sessions instead, where my 'treatment' could be monitored. They wanted to put me with another omega who they thought had shown marked improvement, and was a model patient.” 

“And that omega was Chris?” Stiles looked between them. He was completely ignoring the man on the radio now. Even when his name was mentioned all he did was press his lips a little tighter together and keep his gaze focused on the subject of his attention. For once, Peter's stories actually did some genuine good. 

“Not at first, no. The first one didn't last very long. He didn't like the things I had to say either. _Then_ they sent in Chris.” 

“Worst day of my life,” Chris grimaced. “I had to deal with _Peter_ for two hours. They made us hug, and cuddle, and do omega things together. Peter _hardly_ counts as an omega.” 

“Thank you,” Peter flashed a grin that showed off his perfectly whitened teeth. 

“They just bought it? They thought you two were good friends and that's it?” 

“You know how sometimes an omega releases all their pheromones when they're happy? Well they do it when they're aroused too. Chris sprayed enough pheromones at me that they were more than convinced we were doing well together. I wasn't really into it but Chris-” 

“Hush,” Chris interupted. “He doesn't need to know about that.” He fixed Peter with a stern look. 

“Know about what?” Stiles asked. 

“Nothing,” said Chris. “Ignore him.” 

Peter sighed. “A story for another day, then.” 

“None of the counselors ever said anything? About you two scenting each other?” Stiles raised a brow. 

“They'd have to explain how they knew that, if they did.” Peter chuckled. “We didn't stay much longer after that anyways.” 

“They just let you go?” 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Neither of you have any respect for a good story. A good story involves pacing, suspense -" 

“An actual interesting story.” 

“I think it's interesting.” 

“Please don't encourage him, Stiles. He'll start telling you about all the poor, unsuspecting alphas hes manipulated or beaten up.” 

Peter squeezed Chris's hand tightly on the armrest. “Fine, then you tell the rest of it.” 

“Fine.” Chris raised their hands up to lightly kiss Peter on the back of his hand in consolation. 

Peter maintained his pout and refused to look away from the window. His lips twined up a little when he Chris's lips pressed against his skin. 

“No, they didn't just let us go,” Chris said, dropping his hand back onto the armrest. “The program we were in required us to stay for a six month period. We were only two or three months in. Seeing Peter's improvement they decided to separate us and pair us with different omegas. When the counselors came and tried to make Peter move out of our room – a room we shared with eight other omegas – he punched the alpha counselor in the face.” Chris grimaced at the memory. He deliberately left out that the counselor walked in on them in the same bed. They hadn't even been sleeping together but it was enough to cause a panic. 

“After that it was pretty obvious we weren't going to get to stay together. We ran away from the camp. It was late at night, hardly anyone was out. There was an alpha guard at the entrance to the camp, he chased us, but we got away. 

_“We walked all the way back to Peter's childhood home. It took all night and most of the following day but we made it. When we got there we climbed in through the window and fell asleep in his bed. In the morning his sister found us. She didn't ask what happened but I think she knew._

“She called my father and he told her to either take me back to the camp or keep me. He didn't have any interest in raising an omega son. His family would be alphas, not omegas, and he already had the perfect daughter to take my place. 

“Your dad didn't want you back?” 

“No, he didn't.” 

“And now he's dead, and the world is much better place for it,” said Peter. “End of story, now it's my turn.” 

“I'm not letting you tell him another story,” Chris warned. 

“No,” Peter shook his head. “We had a deal, remember?” Peter let go of Chris's hand and turned around, leaning his head against the seat of the car and peering at Stiles. “He said he'd answer my question if I told him the story. I told him the story.” 

“Okay?” Said Stiles with an anxious shrug. “Shoot.” 

“Have you ever been attracted to another omega, ever?” Peter asked. “Not even a small dream about one?” 

Stiles' face warped into a deep frown. “No. I already said before, I'm not like that.” 

“You just lose attraction when they present as an alpha?” 

“No.” Stiles sighed. “Look, I've never wanted _that_ with anyone.” 

“Not anyone? Not ever? Not even in your dreams?” Peter hummed. “Not even with an alpha?” 

“No, I mean not. . . . Just . . . not!” He was getting frustrated. His lips were tight and his shoulders hunched. The beginnings of a blush were beginning to spread from his cheeks. 

“Stiles you don't have to answer any more of Peter's dumb questions.” 


	4. Chapter 4

They hoisted Stiles through the window of the shady hotel room. It was awkward getting him in with his cast, but better than to risk getting caught by any of the motel workers who happened to have seen their faces on the news. 

“You know I've never actually been chased by the police before,” Stiles said with a grin as Peter set him down on his uninjured leg. “I usually get chased away from them.” 

The air in the room was stagnant like mold, mildew, and the stench of water leaks long since gone dry. At least there were no security cameras. 

“Well how very exciting for you,” Peter said as he stripped the bed of its potentially bug laden sheets. Stiles didn't seem to care as he flopped down on top of it. The mattress creaked and released a light cloud of dust that sent Stiles into a coughing fit.

Chris climbed in through the window after them, the scanners headphone still in his ear. The police had set roadblocks up ahead. They were getting closer and closer by the minute, leaving the three effectively stranded until they chose to move on to the next location. They ditched the car – along with most of their supplies – in a backwoods forest where it couldn't be seen from the street. Then they hiked the rest of the way to the motel, with Peter carrying Stiles on his back.

“Please, both of you shut up. I'm trying to think.” He pulled the headphone from his ear and dropped the scanner onto the mattress.

“There's nothing to think about,” said Peter. “We're stuck here until California decides that three omegas aren't worth the effort.”

“They won't. If they lose us then we become examples to all the other unhappy alphas and omegas who want something different from their lives. They don't care about us or Stiles. They just want to send a message.” He rubbed his forehead. The calm and collected mask he wore was beginning to crack. He ran his calloused hand through his hair, blinking his eyes shut. His exhaustion was mostly mental but the sweat dripping from every part of his body didn't help.

“Well, there's nothing we can do about it now. Just lay down, alright?” Peter left Stiles' bed and went to Chris, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “At least we're someplace warm. Better than our first night together, hm?” he rubbed his cheek against Chris's. 

Chris smiled weakly. “Better. Not good. Honestly, I'm just exhausted.”

“So get some rest,” Peter said. “I can watch the window and the radio while you sleep.” Chris shook his head.

“I think I'm too wound up for sleep. My brain keeps telling me to be on lookout.”

“You've been on lookout all day. You drove most of the way, and then walked a good few miles carrying a pack and listening to a radio scanner. I can do the same while sitting down.”

“I can do it,” Stiles offered. 

Chris looked at him and considered. 

“Stiles, it's not that I don't trust you, it's just that . . . “

“You're in this mess because you wanted to help me.” Stiles frowned. “You can let me help you, just once. It's masochistic to keep putting yourself through all this strain when there's a third person willing to take some of the burden.”

“He's right you now,” said Peter matter-of-factly.

Chris sighed. “He is. Alright, Stiles. I'll show you how to use the radio. If something happens, you wake us up so we can get out of here, okay?” Stiles nodded and straightened up with a grin.

Chris spent the next fifteen minutes showing Stiles how to work the scanner while Peter curled up in the bed, refusing to use the sheets. 

It wasn't hard as Stiles already knew most of it. _Of course, his father is a sheriff,_ Chris thought. Even so, he wanted to be certain Stiles knew what he was doing before he left him for sleep. As he did, his eyes began to casually drift shut mid-sentence.

Finally, he felt confident or delusional enough to crawl into the bed next to Peter. The werewolf opened up his arms and they cuddled close together. Peter grunted when his cold feet pressed against the wolfs. 

Chris sighed and pressed close to the werewolf, leaning their foreheads together. A small part of him wanted to go back to the scanner, but an even stronger part of him just wanted to enjoy the closeness he shared with Peter.

Peter opened his eyes and stared back at him. He waggled his brows.

Chris glowered and shoved him back.

“Not now. Stiles is right there.” He kept his voice low, eyeing the mess of blankets on the floor. The young omega was resting in an armchair beside the window, scanner on his lap and headphones in his ears. His eyes were steadily focused on the window but that hardly put Chris at ease. “Besides, you smell like shit.”

“So do you,” Peter pointed out, and he was right. Walking through the woods in the sun had done nothing for their personal hygiene. He would have demanded they all take showers if he thought he actually had the energy to stand for much longer. “He won't even hear us. He's not paying attention.”

“I don't care. Not while he's in the same room,” Chris said. He looked briefly at Stiles who paid them no mind.

Peter frowned. “I just want to be close.” He ran his hands up Chris's side, then back down again to his hip.

Chris relented by closing his eyes and letting Peter worm his way up to him. He leaned forward and capture Peter's lips with his own. Peter approvingly parted his lips and kissed back. 

Chris wrapped an arm around Peter's waist and pulled him closer. 

“Oh my god!” Stiles shouted. 

Chris jumped back, prepared to see the red and blue lights of a police vehicle. Instead, he saw Stiles looking at them with bewilderment. 

“I know what you're doing!” He pulled one of the headphones from his ear. “I can see you guys in the reflection!” He motioned towards the mirror. 

Chris suddenly regretted the blankets absence. 

“I was trying to listen to the radio, not be part of an R-rated film!”

Chris abruptly pushed Peter off of him and sat up. Peter easily shifted to the side. 

“I told you this would happen,” Chris said, pointing an accusing finger at his love.

“I don't care if he watches,” Peter shrugged. “It's not like we-” 

“Well, I care. I'm listening to this in the bathroom!” Stiles gathered up his things and walked – limped – towards the bathroom. He wobbled on his unbalanced foot and nearly smacked his head against the door frame. 

“Do you need-”

“No!” He shouted, wrenching the door open and limping inside. The door slammed shut behind him. It made the walls around them shake with an unpleasant fragility.

Peter didn't even blink. “In the morning the bathroom will smell like a whorehouse,” he complained, slumping back against the pillows.

“You didn't have to expose him to that.”

“A lack of exposure is why he's confused, Chris,” Peter said. He dropped back down onto the bed. 

“That doesn't mean we have to fuck in front of him,” Chris rolled his eyes. “He needs to come to his own conclusions, besides, he said he doesn't have any interest in sex.”

Peter scoffed. “He still made the car smell like omega puberty. You think all that scenting and trilling was purely platonic? He might as well have humped your leg.” Peter placed his arms behind his head with a yawn.

Chris laid down next to him, turning on his side to face Peter. “Don't be vulgar. He said he didn't want sex from Jackson.”

“You think he's asexual?”

“Maybe,” Chris said. “Maybe he wants a relationship with another omega but doesn't have any interest in sex. It happens, but that's for him to figure out. I don't want to put the thought into his head unless he's already considering it. I don't want to make him feel like we decided for him.” 

Peter nodded and sighed.

“How did we wind up helping a teenager through his sexual identity crisis?” Peter grumbled as he put his arms behind his bed. 

“Didn't you ever wish that someone had been there for you when you were growing up?”

“I never needed anybody there. I survived on my own.”

“You put an alpha through a window and went on a rampage through a high school. Not that I don't think he didn't deserve it; but it still might have been a little overkill.” 

Peter didn't respond to that.

“He has a crush on you, you know.” 

Chris sighed. It wasn't hard to see.

Stiles was always looking at them when they touched, blushing and looking away when they noticed. His heart beat faster whenever they kissed – even chastely – and though he tried to hide it was quite obvious he was giving them plenty of lingering stares.

“He was lonely and now he's not. It's understandable that he would develop feelings. We're probably the first same dynamic couple he's ever seen in real life. It's okay for him to be a little curious. When we get to New York we'll take him to an omega club or something.” Chris didn't resist when Peter nuzzled into his shoulder. “He can become exposed to it that way. He'll get to see that omega couples are just as normal and healthy as traditional ones.”

“Are you sure? You've always been the jealous type.”

“I know what you're getting at, and yes I'm sure.”

“But think of it; all those omegas getting their hands all over your pup. Stiles, with his big brown eyes. So unexposed, and-”

“Stop it. Peter.”

“You like him, too.”

“Yes, I do. That doesn't mean I'm going to let you pressure him into something he's not sure about.”

“Just a little pressure? He's got such a fiery spirit.”

“No.”

*

Peter woke up when he smelt the salty scent of tears flooding from the bathroom. It took him a minute to remember why he was lying on a cold, blanket-less bed in the middle of a skeezy motel room. He wormed his way out from underneath Chris's arm and slid off the bed. 

There was a sniff and some shuffling from behind the bathroom door. 

Peter knocked to make himself known. 

“You can come in,” Stiles said after a second. His voice cracked a little as he spoke. 

Peter opened the door and found Stiles with his head on his knees. His big brown eyes were red-rimmed from crying. A couple tears escaped his eyes and fell to the floor. A sharp animal instinct of protectiveness flared in Peter's mind.

“What's wrong?” he demanded. “What happened?” 

Stiles wiped at his eyes and nose with an already soaked sleeve.

“Nothing,” he said in a congested voice.

“Don't do that,” Peter rolled his eye. “Don't do that thing where you say your fine, but obviously aren't. It's immature. Tell me what happened.” He knelt down on the cold tile floor and lifted the Stiles' head into his hands. “Look at me, c'mon.” 

Stiles complied and allowed his chin to be tilted up. His eyelashes cradled tears in each corner. 

“Now tell me what happened.” 

Stiles sniffed and opened his mouth a few times before he managed to get the words out. 

“T-They're saying my dad's a bad sheriff. That he's a bad alpha but he's not. He's a good alpha and a great sheriff! They're going to remove him from his position and it's all because of _me_.” His eyes glistened with tears. “It's my fault. He's going to hate me.”

“Stiles, _no_. That isn't true.”

“Yes it is,” he insisted. He jerked his head out of Peter's hands and glared at the wall. He wiped at his eyes again with a tear-stained sleeve. 

“You did nothing wrong, Stiles. Have you talked to your dad about your-” he paused, “-about this, before-?”

“Yeah, but he didn't want to listen.” Stiles shook his head. “I should have made him listen. I should have told someone. Then he could have gotten me help-”

Peter snarled. “No. That's not how this works. Those people don't care about you, they don't want to help you. Do you like hurting people Stiles? Do you want to hurt people?”

“No!” Stiles rapidly shook his head.

“Then you're not doing anything wrong. Being yourself isn't a crime. Stop letting someone you don't know make you feel bad about something you can't control. Throughout all of this nonsense, your father has maintained that he still loves you, and just wants you to come home. I don't know the man, but to me, he sounds like a pretty genuine guy. He isn't going to hate you over this.”

“I feel _bad_ ,” Stiles said. 

“You feel bad because other people are making you feel bad.”

“The guy on the news said-”

“I don't care what he said, Stiles. What about your friend Jackson? Did he need help? Was he better off?”

Stiles hesitated. “Well, no, but-”

“But what? Even if he wasn't born typical that doesn't make his feelings any less valid. Or yours, for that matter. You're not hurting anyone. It doesn't matter what you do in the privacy of your own home, or who you do it with.”

“I'm not doing-”

“Everything okay in here?” 

Peter turned to see Chris hovering in the doorway. His face darkened when he saw Stiles depressive state. He sighed. “I shouldn't have let you listen.”

“Can we stop with the blame game?” Peter snapped.

Chris kneeled down. He reached a hand out to touch Stiles' face. 

Stiles jerked away from him. 

“It's okay,” he tried to comfort. “I'm sorry I let you listen, from now on Peter or I will -”

“Do you want to coddle him his entire life, Chris?” 

Chris grimaced. 

“Or do you want to let him face reality?” Peter turned to Stiles. “Maybe we should have warned you that you might hear some things that aren't good, but you heard what they said on the radio, right? And you know those aren't true either.”

“B-but,” Stiles sniffled. “These are police officers. They're supposed to have each others back, they-”

“There are good and bad people in every line of work.” Peter shrugged.

“I just feel like it's all my fault.”

“It is,” Peter said honestly.

“Peter,” Chris scolded. Stiles winced in hurt.

“But if it weren't you, it would be another omega in your place, and I'm willing to take a guess, that if you weren't here worrying about your father, he'd be home worrying for you. So wipe those tears from your pretty face and stop stressing out about it.” Stiles did as he was told and looked to Chris.

“What do we do now?”

“Well . . .” Chris thought. “I don't know about you two, but I can't just sit here waiting around for something to happen.” He stood from the floor, almost bumping his hip into the grime coated sink. “I'm going to try scouting ahead, see if the police presence is still as high is yesterday. What did the scanner say?” Some of Stiles perk came back to him as he was addressed.

“Th-they said the were going to increase the patrol area. But that's all. The rest was just . . . ”

Chris nodded. “Alright. I'll take a walk down to where they were set up last night. See how many have stuck around.”

“No, let me,” Peter volunteered, standing from the floor as well. Stiles propped himself up onto the edge of the tub. “I have better hearing, they-” Chris shook his head.

“That's why you need to stay here with Stiles. If I got caught, you'll have a better chance of escaping with him then I would. Peter glowered. “I can't carry him for very long, and his leg is still healing.”

“Fine.” Peter's shoulders dropped. “Stay safe.”

The two leaned close and shared a kiss. They leaned their foreheads together and took a second to stare into each others eyes. Then Chris pulled away, kissing Peter chastely on the lips once more. He didn't miss the way Stiles looked the other way when they touched. His ears were just a little red around the edges. He hid it behind another wipe with his sleeve.

“I'll be careful.” He said to Peter, then hesitated. “You should probably take a shower while I'm gone.” He wrinkled his nose and stepped back, waving his hand in front of his nostrils.

“So should you,” Peter growled. 

“You know we could always take one together,” Chris said with a light smirk. 

Peter chuckled and leaned in for another chaste kiss. 

Chris obliged him, and then added, “Stiles should probably take one too.” 

“Yeah, someone's going to have to help me with that.” Stiles motioned towards his cast and the brace stuck around his arm, he still winced when he moved either appendage too suddenly. He'd done a good job of tearing up the rim of the leg cast with his nails, but it was still stuck firmly in place despite his best efforts. Chris chastised him more than once for the mounting fabric in the backseat. No matter what, the boy's hands were always destructively pulling apart something. Even now his fingers were picking apart the threads of a musty towel he picked up from the side of the tub.

Peter sighed regretfully. “Fine. I guess I'll just be getting soapy and wet with Stiles instead, but if he splashes me-” he glared over at Stiles who gripped the towel tighter and gave an aggressive tug on the thread.

Stiles pursed his lips. “I don't want your help. Chris can't you just help me when you get back?” he looked pleadingly at the other omega. “I don't even smell anyways, I wasn't the one walking.” He managed to yank the string from the cloth with a final pull. He set the strand down and started to pull at another one. “I smell just fine.”

“I don't want to pull that cast off your leg and find it's decaying. No offense Stiles, but you're coated in your own pheromones. It'll be harder for those men to find us if we don't leave a scent trail everywhere we go.” Stiles flushed a little at the comment. He gave a self-conscious sniff to his shoulder and wrinkled his nose.

“Okay, fine,” he relented, “but can't it wait until later?”

“Why do you want _his_ help so badly?” Peter wasn't accustomed to rejection. He took the younger omegas protest as an insult.

“Because I don't trust you,” Stiles stuck his tongue out. He looked at Chris and momentarily abandoned the towel to press his hands together in a praying fashion. “Chris, please?”

Chris smiled sympathetically. “I promise Peter won't molest you. I'm already lacking that kind of energy. I don't think I could even give myself a bath even if I wanted too.” Stiles grimaced and returned his fingers to the fabric.

“How am I supposed to get clean here? The place is filthy! I've seen the cockroaches. The water probably contains chemical runoff or blood from the last person murdered here!” The pair ignored the younger omegas complaints as they headed towards the door. They shared one last, solemn kiss before Chris stepped out into the hot summer air.

Peter watched him go until he disappeared behind the building. Then he closed the door and turned back towards the bathroom, mischievous thoughts running through his head now that his more moral half was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your nice comments <3


	5. Chapter 5

The water was warmer than Peter thought it would be when he stuck his hand underneath it. He let it run for a few seconds, half-expecting it to turn brown from grime and gunk built up in the pipes.

Stiles sat on the toilet and watched him suspiciously.

“Alright,” Peter motioned towards the water stream. “Take off your clothes and get in. Sit down with your cast out of the water.”

“Yeah, no. Thanks, but no.” Stiles turned his head away.

“Stiles.” Peter tapped his foot impatiently. “Do you want the police to catch your sickening stench?”

“Fine,” he huffed. Reluctantly he peeled the shirt from his back. “well don't watch me,” he snapped, a tinge of pink dusted his cheeks.

“You know I'll be seeing you naked in a minute, right?” Peter asked, arching a brow of his own.

“Well it's awkward,” Stiles grumbled.

Peter rolled his eyes and covered them with his hands. “Fine, I'm not looking.”

He heard Stiles struggle with his pants for a second.

“Do you need-”

“I'm fine!” There was a fumbling, a cursing, the sound of a cast banging against the toilet and a yelp. Then finally; “I'm done.”

“I've never been more proud. Now get in the shower. Keep your cast away from the water.”

He kept his eyes on the wall as Stiles crawled underneath the steady stream. He waited until he could hear the sound of water hitting skin before turning back. Stiles sat with his back towards the spray, his arms down between his legs. His eyes flashed honey yellow for a split second.

“Don't judge me,” he muttered as he hunched up his shoulders.

Peter rolled his eyes.

“Honestly, Stiles. I'm not a teenager, I can handle nudity like a mature adult.” He grabbed the washcloth off the counter and scooted forwards.

Stiles shied away from his hands, letting out a little, awkward laugh.

Peter seized Stiles' arm and tugged him closer under the water. He ran the cloth over his shoulder and down to his bicep. The stream made his skin warm and wet to touch. His back reddened from the heat, and maybe his own self -consciousness. He bit his lip and turned his head away from the water, exposing his slender neck.

Peter took the opportunity to re-wet the cloth and run it from his ear down to his collarbone. Stiles shuddered and let out a soft noise. Peter pretended not to hear it and repeated the motion.

“P-pretty sure I can clean my own throat, thanks,” he made another noise, a little louder than the first two as Peter removed the cloth from his neck. “Actually, pretty sure I could do all of this by myself.”

“Oh yeah?” Peter tapped his arm brace. “Please, enlighten me how.”

“. . . Carefully,” Stiles said, staring blankly forward.

Peter tsk'd and resumed his ministrations. He cupped a small amount of water in his hand and poured it over Stiles' head.

“Hey!” Stiles shouted, glaring up at the wolf and shaking his head.

“Just cleaning your hair,” he said innocently. “No need to get all defensive.”

“Warn me before you do that,” Stiles said. His dampened locks clung to his forehead. With his lanky stature, hunched position, and scowling face, he looked like a drowned cat. An adorable drowned cat.

He continued to scrub Stiles clean. Getting rid of his scent was hard without any soap or shampoo to use. He just kept wetting the cloth and wiping it down his back and chest. Eventually, he reached his stomach. Stiles jolted and made a sound somewhere between a purr and a squeak when the rough material brushed over his navel.

“Did you just purr at me?” Peter smirked. “That's adorable, do it again.” He pressed down on the nape of the boy's neck and rubbed his stomach. Stiles jerked and uttered out more of the quiet sounds that rumbled from his throat.

“Peter, stop. _Please_?”

Peter abruptly removed his hands from Stiles' body. He knew he crossed a line. “Look, I'm sorry I teased you. I'll stop.”

Stiles glared at him, his cheeks were red and wet. “Don't you _understand_? It's not natural! Omegas don't purr for other omegas. It's like biology one-oh-one.” His shoulders shook with the long overdue outburst.

Peter moved back on his knees and gave Stiles the space he needed to curl into himself.

“It's not natural,” he repeated, still glaring at Peter with barely contained emotions.

“Here I thought we'd talked about this,” Peter sighed. He paused and gave Stiles a few moments to breathe before continuing. “Do you think what Chris and I do is unnatural?”

Stiles hesitated. “No. You guys love each other.”

Peter nodded. “We do, and we're both omegas. It's really not that big of a deal, Stiles. Chris has purred for me before and I've purred for him. It's normal and healthy. That's what you do when you're happy.”

“If it isn't a big deal then why are so many people getting so upset about it?”

“Because people don't like things they can't understand.” Peter shrugged. “It might seem like a cop out, but that's the truth. Their big alpha brains don't know how to process the fact that you'd rather cuddle up to another omega than be fucked by an alpha. Maybe you wouldn't mind getting fucked by an omega either, but their narcissistic minds can't understand that.”

Stiles looked at his feet. He blinked and wiped some water away from his eyes. He looked up slowly and met Peter's gaze with his eyes still half-hidden behind his arms.

“I had a,” he struggled for his words, “ _reaction_ , to Chris in the car. What does that mean?” He asked. He raised his head a little more. His lips trembled with uncertainty.

“I know you did. It means you had a reaction to Chris in the car.” Peter shrugged.

“You knew?”

“I know,” Peter nodded. “It's a small car, Stiles. Your scent's still caught on the carpeting.”

Stiles ducked his head a little. “I kinda hoped I was the only one who could smell it. I hoped I was just imagining it. Isn't it . . . isn't it wrong though?”

“Does it feel wrong?”

“A little, yeah. Well, it feels like it should.” He fiddled with his thumbs on his lap and kept his eyes anywhere but on Peter's face.

“Are they teaching you nothing in school these days? Your body responds to the things it likes. You can't control what it likes. You're born with it.”

“But-”

“Don't over think it. It's your body,” Peter said. “We don't get to pick them. There's no use stressing out about it.”

“But I . . .” Stiles struggled to find his words again. “I don't want . . . I don't want _that_. I've never wanted that. Ever. So why?”

“Were you in love with Jackson?” Peter asked. He didn't press the question when Stiles' didn't respond. He turned the water off and brought Stiles a pair of sweats and a T-shirt from his pack. It took Stiles several minutes to fit the clothing over his cast, but he managed to do it without help.

“Not love,” he said when he finally answered, fiddling with the corner of his pants. He wore one of Peter's old T-shirts but if he noticed the scent on the collar he didn't mention it. “Fascination, maybe? Because he was like me.”

“Like you?”

“I'm hungry,” Stiles said, looking away.

Peter rolled his eyes. “You're not getting out of this conversation.”

“Well can we at least not have it in a bathroom?” Stiles asked as he staggered up onto his good leg.

“Lead the way.” Peter stepped back from the doorway and motioned for Stiles to exit.

With a huff, the smaller omega hopped on his uninjured leg out of the room. He crawled onto the bed and pressed his back against the headboard.

“So talk,” Peter encouraged as he sat on the bed next to Stiles'.

Stiles sighed and crossed his legs. “I sort of used to have a crush on his girlfriend, Lydia, too. Jackson knew and he kept getting all defensive with me over it. He would snarl at me in the hallways, or shove me around. When Jackson presented as an omega my feelings just sort of . . . shifted. I tried to pretend it wasn't real, or it was just because he was always standing so close to me and growling in my ear.

“After a while, it got easier to pretend nothing had happened. I thought I was in love with my friend, Scott. Scott wasn't like a normal alpha, he's sweet, kind, loyal. When Scott finally presented I just wasn't attracted to him anymore. I wasn't repulsed or anything, but, my feelings sort of evaporated. There must be something wrong with me,” Stiles said with a sigh. “That's not-”

“There's nothing wrong with you,” Peter reassured. “If other people can't handle you not being obsessed with their musk and their brutish ways, then that's their own petty insecurity. It has nothing to do with you.” It felt strange comforting someone who wasn't Chris, but it was easy with Stiles. He understood Stiles and where he was coming from, He knew what it was like to be an intelligent, decisive omega when the world demanded they be docile and demure.

“Maybe I should have just stayed with Scott. He wouldn't have pressured me into anything I didn't want, he would have been respectful. Scott is a good alpha.”

“Then you'd both be miserable. He'd wonder why his omega never responded to him, and you'd feel empty and unattached. The relationship would be unhealthy, and eventually deteriorate. You both deserve to find happiness in the arms of someone who cares about you.” Peter put his arm around Stiles' shoulder and urged him to lean his head against his chest. Stiles sighed and obeyed.

“And now? Who do you have a crush on now, Stiles?”

The boy shifted uneasily and readjusted his head against the wolves shoulder. “You know the answer to that.”

“I'd still like to hear it.”

“You . . . and Chris. . . “ he practically whispered the words.

“Why?”

“I don't know,” Stiles furrowed his brow. “Because you're not like the omegas I knew at school? Because you don't bow your heads, or cuddle up any chance you get?”

Peter chuckled. “It's cute that you have a type.”

*

“Where’s Stiles?” Chris asked when he returned from his patrol.

Peter lounged against the bed, arms back behind his head. The corners of his mouth twitched up into the self-satisfied smirk of a lazy cat.

“Our darling Stiles is hiding under the bed, rather than be smitten and awestruck by the sight of my amazingly perfect features.”

“Of course he is,” Chris said dryly.

“Stooooop,” groaned a quiet voice from underneath the bed.

“He has a crush on you too. Don't be jealous,” Peter's smirk widened. “But mostly me. He even said so.”

“That's not what I said,” Stiles interjected. “Thanks, Peter. You're so helpful and understanding.”

“You’re welcome my adorable omega love muffin.”

“Asshat.”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Peter, stop punishing Stiles for having emotions.” He sighed and crouched down beside the bed. He lifted the covers away from the floor until he spotted a pair of golden-yellow eyes shining back at him. The gold faded into the darkness as they made eye contact.

“Hi,” Chris said.

“Peter's an asshole,” Stiles said meekly.

“Yes he is.”

“I thought he was being nice. He was being so sweet, too. He put his arm around me and let me cuddle up to him, and then-” Stiles let out a helpless noise.

“Peter's empathy only works in short bursts,” Chris smiled sympathetically. “Then he's back to his usual, obnoxious self. He makes you pay for every iota of emotion.”

Peter scoffed. “You make me sound like the devil.”

“You are the devil,” Chris said, but he couldn't help a small smile from forming on his lips.

“Oooh, am I?” Peter taunted. There was a creaking from the bed as he shifted his weight.

Chris ignored him and leaned closer to Stiles. “Do you want to know a secret?” he half-whispered, loud enough that Peter could still hear him.

“No. Maybe. Who's it about?” That got Stiles eyes sparkling again.

“Peter.”

Peter growled.

“Okay,” Stiles said, perking up a little.

“He purrs when he's rubbed behind the ears,” Chris said. “Every single time. Loudly, too. Wouldn't matter if it's his best friend or worst enemy, he just purrs like a kitten.”

“Really?” Stiles asked with a grin.

Chris opened his mouth to answer. He was suddenly yanked back from the bed and knocked onto his back. Peter growled and seized Chris' wrists. He pinned them to the floor – although Chris hardly put up a fight.

Peter clamped his teeth around Chris' throat and snarled victoriously.

Chris grunted with a roll of his eyes. “Yes, yes. You are a vicious brute.”

Peter released his throat and leaned up and pressed their lips together.

Just behind them Chris could hear Stiles crawling slowly out from underneath the bed.

Peter nuzzled against Chris's face. Chris smirked – an expression he'd modeled greatly after Peter's – and pulled his wrists out from Peters hold. He reached up and scratched the favored spot underneath the werewolves ear.

Peter trilled, starting suddenly. His eyes widened as slow, rumbling noises echoed unabashed from his throat.

“See?” Chris said, he turned his head to address Stiles with a wink. “Every time.”

Stiles' head was slightly tilted, his lips in a neutral expression.

Peter huffed. “I still won,” he said, smacking Chris's hand away from his ear.

“I don't know,” Stiles said with a dismissive wave. “I think he just let you win.”

Peter's eyes locked predatorily on the young omega. From where he lay Chris could feel his muscles tense in preparation for another assault.

“Pete-”

Peter leapt before Chris could stop him.

*

Stiles made a noise like a squeaky toy as he was pounced and shoved onto his back.

Peter snarled, but instead of biting at Stiles' throat as he did with Chris he nudged lightly at his chin with his nose. His hands stayed on Stiles' shoulders, unclawed. He touched noses with him for a brief second. It was a very gentle movement, without the same pressure and urging he'd used with Chris.

Stiles tensed but he didn't shy away. He was staring up into Peter's eyes with a slight, curious frown. Peter leaned his forehead down against the younger omega's, unmoving. Stiles hesitantly leaned up and nuzzled Peter. At his side his hands dug into the carpet.

Peter pulled back and Stiles looked momentarily resentful of it.

“I like you.” Peter said softly. “I want to feel close to you.” It came out in a husky whisper. Stiles' heart stuttered in his chest. He gently thumbed over Stiles cheek. “Let me.”

Instead of answering Stiles looked to Chris. His brown eyes weren't afraid, only nervous. Chris nodded slowly, encouragingly. If it was what Stiles wanted then he wasn't about to stop him.

“It's okay with me,” he said, and it was. He'd never felt uncomfortable or insecure when it came to his and Peter's relationship. He knew where he lay in the wolf's heart.

“Okay,” Stiles said, almost inaudibly.

Peter moved back so that he could sit up. He placed his hand against Stiles' cheek and encouraged him to tilt his head up. He did. Peter's hands wrapped around Stiles waist. They pressed their lips together.

For a few rough minutes they stayed intertwined, Stiles made a few awkward laughing noises here and there, but he didn't break the hold. Peter smirked each time the boy parted for air and pressed against him again once he'd gotten enough.

Peter purred contentedly.

“Stiles?” Chris approached the pair and knelt down next to them. He gently nudged Stiles face back towards him.

Stiles tilted his head up.

Chris gently pressed his lips to the boys. Only for a second, then he pulled away.

“Is that okay?” he asked.

Stiles' eyes shifted around, hesitantly he nodded. “That's okay. . . I like that part.”

Chris nodded. “That's okay.”

“Do you think I'm weird?” he asked. He could feel Peter's eyes on his back, could feel the hand on his waist.

“Yes,” interrupted Peter, honestly. Stiles' fingers dug into the blanket. “But who among us can say they aren't?” He pressed closer, trapping the younger omega between them.

Stiles looked up at Chris. For a second he just stared at him then he leaned a little closer.

Obligingly Chris leaned down and pressed his lips to Stiles', gently and without pressure. He waited for Stiles to put pressure into the kiss before continuing. He slid his hand down to Stiles' hip, feeling Peter’s hand already resting there. He laid his hand on top of the wolf's, entwining their fingers together. Behind them, Peter let out a rumbling purr, which was soon followed by Stiles' sound, muted against Chris's lips.

“I thought you said you didn't like sex?” Stiles asked, breaking his embrace with Chris to look over at Peter.

Peter shrugged. “I like intimacy. Sex can be a part of that, but it doesn't have to be.”

“Okay,” Stiles said. “I still don't understand, but okay.”

Peter nosed along Stiles jugular, leaving light trails of kisses up his throat and down to his collarbone. “It’s okay not to understand,” he said. “We all figure it out eventually.”


	6. Chapter 6

Chris sighed. He wanted to expose Stiles to their lifestyle not involve him in it. What was done had been done and he hadn't regretted any of it, he only hoped Stiles felt the same.

The morning air brushed against his face with cold fingers. The light that peaked between the trees was scant, even the early morning birds were subdued in tone. It hadn’t yet gotten hot enough to make the walk back to the car uncomfortable but the sun was quickly rising. 

“Hey, Stiles?” Peter asked behind him. Stiles didn't respond. “Stiiiileeeees.”

“Goddammit, what?”

“You should be in a museum-”

“Peter, no.”

“Because you deserve to be nailed.”

“Peter!” Stiles scolded. The red of his cheeks was shockingly visible against his pale face. “Stop it.” He ducked behind Peter’s shoulder to hide his smile. 

Peter smirked. “I can feel your-”

“Peter, Stiles,” Chris hissed back at them. “We are trying to stay quiet, remember?” 

“. . . . I still think it's a trap,” Stiles admitted quietly. He rode on Peter’s back, arms slung loosely over his shoulders. 

“Relax,” Peter said. “They don't know where the car is, they don't even know we've been listening. You heard them say they were letting up on the search.”

“I heard them say it. I didn't see them do it.”

“It'll be alright, Stiles,” Chris comforted. “Just stay quiet, and keep moving.”

“Easy for you to say,” Stiles wiggled his casted leg.

Peter and Stiles hushed their bickering if only temporarily as they drew closer to the road and the location of their hidden vehicle. When Chris spotted the shine of black metal through thick leaves he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He stepped through the foliage and motioned for Peter to follow him. 

It was only after he’d left the safety of the trees that he noticed several spikes embedded deep into the tires. 

He didn’t have to speak before Peter howled. 

Chris whirled around to see him topple to the ground. He dropped Stiles, who fell on his back. 

Peter clawed at his leg where the narrow shaft of an arrow was sticking out just below his knee. 

A moment later and Chris felt a sharp pain in his own leg. He gasped and dropped. The world around him grew blurry – no not blurry, foggy, a white fog permeated the area.

“Don't. Breath,” he grunted, grasping onto the handle of the arrow and yanking it from his leg. The point was tinged with blood. Another arrow landed in its place a second later. He screamed. 

Peter let out another howl. Beside him Stiles was scrambling away. He looked unscathed but he was coughing heavily. He could see the gas flooding into his mouth as he coughed. 

The last thing Chris saw before he passed out was a man stepping towards Stiles wearing a T-shirt that bore a smiling face.

*  
Something tugged in Stiles brain. His throat was parched, his lips were cracked, and his head was racked with a peculiar throbbing. A weight was missing from around his leg. He opened his eyes and winced at the sudden brightness that engulfed him. He tried to shield his eyes but his hands wouldn’t leave his side. He frowned and pulled but nothing happened. Looking over he saw he was handcuffed to the railing of the bed he lay on.

“Don't do that,” an unfamiliar voice said. “Don't want you getting hurt.” An older man stood beside the bed. In his hands he held a clipboard. 

“Who are you?” Stiles asked. The room was a shade of sterile white only found in hospitals. A thin curtain shielded the room from the hallway beyond it. Outside he could hear a scuffling and the dull murmur of voices. 

“My name is Doctor Deaton.” The man pressed a hand to Stiles’ forehead. “You don't seem to be running a fever. How are you feeling?”

“Confused,” Stiles said, honestly. “Where's . . . ?” he closed his eyes. None of the words were forming in his brain.

“Christopher Argent and Peter Hale?” 

Stiles nodded. His stomach churned uneasily as the memories flashed before him.

“They're in police custody. As are you,” he motioned towards the handcuffs. Stiles chest hurt. “I believe California is still fighting to have them taken back to their home state to stand trial.”

“When can I see them again? Are they hurt?”

“They aren't hurt. If you see them again it won't be for a very, very, long time.”

“Why not?” 

“Because, unlike them your name isn't on any New York citizenship documents. You are still a ward of the California legal system, and as of two hours ago Talia Hale has claimed you as her responsibility. You will be transported back to California to resume your treatment.”

“Peter’s sister?” Stiles frowned. “Why Peter’s sister?” His heartbeat quickened. He struggled to sit up from the bed but his arms and legs moved like jello.

“Ms. Hale wishes for you to be charged on Hale land for the crimes you've committed against her family.”

Stiles heart stuttered. “What? What crimes? I was already sentenced for-”

Deaton shook his head. “Now isn't the time. You've been unconscious for six hours, how are you feeling?“

“Only six?” Stiles said. 

There was a loud bang outside the room. Stiles head whipped towards the door so fast it hurt his neck.

“ _I am still an officer of the law goddammit and I have the right to see my son_!” A loud voice echoed from the hallway. 

Stiles gave a strong tug on the handcuff pinning him to the bed. “Dad?” he shouted. “Dad!”

The curtain swung open. John Stilinski’s face was red with anger and his usual uniform had been replaced by a white shirt and jeans. Stiles hadn't realized just how much he missed him until he saw him standing there, looking more worried and upset then he ever had before. Behind him Jordan Parrish – an officer he'd known since he was a little kid – followed. His face was flustered. Another officer barged in after that, wearing a uniform from a different county. He opened his mouth to speak, but a quick, cold, look from Jordan stopped his words in his throat.

“Stiles!” the sheriff breathed, visibly relieved. He rushed to the bed and wrapped his arms around his child tightly, squeezing him like he thought he'd disappear forever. 

Jordan’s face flashed with barely concealed relief. Jordan was still wearing his officer’s uniform, and maintained a posture of professionalism, but behind his indifferent eyes Stiles could see how much he wanted to break character and join Stiles and the sheriff in their hug.

“Are you okay?” John asked. Stiles threw his free arm around him in an awkward one-sided hug. “Did they hurt you?”

“No,” Stiles said, shaking his head a little. “The doctors-”

“Not them,” John pulled back and looked down in Stiles eyes intently. “Christopher Argent and Peter Hale; did they hurt you?”

“What?” Stiles furrowed his brow. “No, Chris and Peter tried to _help_ me. It was the-”

“I hope you aren't planning on helping him escape again,” a cold voice said from the doorway. A woman stood in the doorway. Dark brown hair hung to her shoulders. Her face was cool and controlled, like a marble statue. She stood tall with her chin held up. She had to force her way past the two officers crowding the doorway, Jordan stepped aside and allowed her to take his place.

The sheriff broke away from Stiles and glared at the woman. He stepped in front of his boy and crossed his arms over his chest. like a grizzly bear preparing to defend his cub.

“I would appreciate a moment alone with my son.” 

Stiles had never seen him look so hatefully at anyone until now.

“I'd appreciate having my brother back,” the woman snapped. “But he's gone. Run away with that _other_ defective omega.” 

Fury bubbled in Stiles’ heart. 

“The only defective person here is the woman who let her own brother be tortured in a 'reformation' camp,” Stiles said. He remembered the angry way Peter spoke his sister’s name, the unspoken betrayal in his eyes. Stiles heart filled with rage at the thought of Peter, barely older than himself, struggling to come to terms with his feelings alongside a family who couldn't accept him. 

“Uncuff him,” Talia said coldly. “We're leaving. _Now._ Stiles will be punished on Hale land for his crimes against our family. He will go back on his medication, and he _will be reformed_.” 

“What crimes? He did nothing to you!” John shouted. 

“He brainwashed my brother and Christopher. He made them think they were some sort of vigilante duo who needed to _help_ him. They were perfectly fine before _he_ got involved.” She pointed a clawed nail in his direction. 

Stiles proudly held his chin up.

“You cannot be serious right now!” John was quickly unraveling in front of him. “Your brother and Chris are both adults!”

“Your son crashed a truck into a lake. _Your son_ willingly got into that car and let Peter and Chris drive off with him.”

“We've all seen the security tapes! He was drugged out of his mind when he went with them!”

“Even if I hadn't been I still would have gone with them,” Stiles eyes narrowed at the officer who stepped towards him. He yanked his arm back from the railing as soon as it was freed. “Peter is much better off without you. If you love him, if you ever loved him, then let him _go_.”

“Stiles, you are not helping,” the sheriff hissed at him. He put his hand on Stiles shoulder. “You're also not going anywhere.”

“I have a court order giving me the complete legal right to take him, and I'm taking him. Now. Do not make me say it again,”

“You can't do that! He's _my_ son!”

“But he's _not_ your omega,” the words cut deep. “The court believes you to be an incompetent alpha, and frankly so do I. The fact that you've managed to retain your position as the sheriff is a bafflement. You can have Stiles back after he's completed his program.”

“At least let me say goodbye to him,” John’s voice cracked.

Talia’s eyes wavered only momentarily. “I know it doesn't seem like it right now,” she said, gaining control of her voice. “But you're doing the right thing here. You'll come to see that all of this was necessary.” 

The sheriff looked to Stiles, who stared up at him with his own eyes glistening with tears.

“I love you,” Stiles said. The sheriff nodded. He gave him another big, rib-crushing hug, and then released him. Jordan’s hand took its place on his bicep. He squeezed it comfortingly.

“I love you too, kid.”

“Jordan?” he motioned towards the blonde deputy next to him. The deputy stood straight and awaited his orders.

“Escort Ms. Hale and Stiles to the Hale property as far as you can.” Jordan nodded.

“Sir,” he said.

Jordan helped Stiles up from the bed and kept a tight grasp on his arm as they started to walk away. Stiles looked back at his father once they'd crossed through the doorway. His father’s face was heartbroken, watching him be led off by his own deputy. Stiles swallowed down a sob and felt another painful stab into his gut. Johns hands were clenched tight at his sides. Behind him Deaton patted his shoulder comfortingly.

“Peter hates you,” Stiles said, if only to hurt Talia’s feelings. Her shoulders stiffened but she said nothing.

Jordan cleared his throat. “If we want to avoid the reporters we should leave through the back entrance.”

“A good idea,” Talia said with a nod. She avoided looking into Stiles eyes, but Stiles kept his eyes fixed on the back of her head, wishing he could burn a hole in it.

They took three flights of stairs down to the ground floor. From the lobby Stiles could hear the sounds of reporters rapidly asking questions and see the flashing of camera lights. Several nurses standing by the stairways motioned them towards the emergency exit.

“Jordan?” she said as they reached the parking lot. Stiles looked around, he wondered briefly if he could escape if he took off running. But Talia was a werewolf, and he was a wanted 'criminal.'

“Yes, Ms. Hale?”

“Do you think maybe we could take your car? Mines not large enough for three people.” Stiles furrowed his brow. Unless she drove a pickup truck – which didn't seem likely – there weren't many cars that couldn't easily seat three people.

“Yes,” said Jordan, suspiciously easily.

“Why?” Stiles asked. “Why his car?” 

Neither adults answered him. They veered sharply to the left, behind the building. Stiles had to pick up his pace to keep up with Jordan, who was near sprinting towards the black van tucked away in the corner. That wasn't Jordan's car. He knew what Jordan's car looked like and that wasn't it.

“Wait, where are we going?” Stiles asked. Jordan yanked open the back door and pushed Stiles inside.

“To the airport,” he said simply. Talia took her place in the passenger seat while Jordan circled the car and went to the driver’s position.

“This isn't your car,” Stiles heart started to pound. “Where are we really going?”

“My car would get noticed by the reporters,” Jordan said. “So would hers. This is a rental car.”

Stiles pressed his body to the door of the car, fidgeting nervously with his hands on his lap. As Jordan swerved out of the parking lot Stiles saw a motley of news vans, camera crews, and reporters standing by with microphones in hand.

“Stiles?” Talia asked. 

Stiles jerked when he felt a hand on his. He glared at the woman and yanked his hand out of her grip. 

“Stiles,” her eyes softened. She pulled her hand back to her side and rested it on the armrest between her and Jordan.

Jordan glanced over at him from the front seat.

“It's okay, Stiles,” he said. After all that had happened it felt strange to sit in a car with the radio off, and two new people in the front seat. He missed the way Peter put his feet up on the dashboard, and the way Chris would scoff and pretend it didn't bother him. He wondered how Talia would feel if he told her they'd kissed just the night before.

“I know I was harsh before,” Talia said. Her voice almost motherly. “I had to be. This flight leaves in twenty-five minutes. You have to be on it. I know your father cares about you a lot . . . he wouldn't have ever let you go if I'd let him.” She gave a meek, sullen smile that contrasted sharply with her earlier behavior.

“Flight?” Stiles furrowed his brow. “To California? Why would you book-”

“No,” she sighed. “One to New York, the one Peter and Chris are on.”

“You're helping me get back to Chris and Peter?” Stiles blinked. “Does my dad know? Do Chris and Peter know?” she shook her head.

“No. We couldn't include him. The media already thinks he helped you escape the first time. If they saw me talking to him they wouldn't have granted me temporary custody.”

“Is that true, Jordan?” Stiles asked. He would have trusted Jordan with his life.

“It's true, Stiles. She contacted me when you were taken into custody. We already have the plane tickets and everything.”

Stiles blinked, he almost couldn't believe what they were saying. For once in his life he was struck completely, and utterly speechless.

Talia hesitated. “Peter . . . he doesn't really hate me, does he?”

“You sent him to a rehabilitation camp. Can you blame him for being angry?”

“I didn't want to hurt him. You don't know what he was like before. He was so angry and manipulative. All he did was sneer and snarl.He never told me what the problem was, he refused to talk to me. If he just told me he didn’t want an alpha . . . that he liked omegas . . . I would have been okay with that.” Talia hung her head. “But he didn’t tell me, and I didn't know what to do.”

“So it's his fault then?” Stiles glared out the window, unable to look at her.

“I didn’t know what that place would be like for him. I believed they were going to help - everyone did. They didn’t tell me they were going to do those things to him. He’s my baby brother, Stiles. I never wanted him to be hurt, I just wanted him to stop being angry. They promised they could help. They showed me omegas were happier after leaving. They didn’t tell me that most of them committed suicide years down the line.”

“You never guessed? That he was . . . ?”

“When Peter showed back up on our doorstep with Chris by his side, I suspected it. I welcomed them both with open arms, but Peter never forgave me. I just wish he would have trusted me. I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't have hated him for it,” there was a solemnity in her voice and in the way her dark eyes angled downwards.

“I don't understand why you're helping me,” Stiles said. “I get that you love Peter and want to help him but I'm not your brother. I won't convince him to come home just because you're nice to me. I can't fix your relationship.”

She turned her gaze back towards the omega in the backseat. “I'm helping you because . . . for whatever reason, you're important to Peter. That makes you important to me too, and also, because Peter would listen to you. Maybe you can't fix our relationship, but you can tell him that I love him and that I'm sorry for whatever damage to him my actions caused.”

“If we actually make it to them, I'll be sure to say something.” Stiles smiled weakly at her. She smiled back.

“We're getting close,” Jordan said. “Stiles, there's a box by your feet. Change into those clothes, put the hood up, and keep the glasses on, okay?”

Stiles frowned, noticing the cardboard box beside him for the first time. He picked through the clothes, pulling out a hooded sweatshirt and a pair of dark sunglasses. He threw them on easily over his head. Underneath the clothes were two passports – one belonging to him, the other to Jordan – and two plane tickets.

“You're coming with me?” Stiles asked, addressing the deputy.

Jordan smiled wryly. “I promised your father I'd look out for you.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said genuinely. “You know, my dad’s going to kill you when you get back. For not telling him your plan.”

Jordan grunted. “Maybe I'll just find some nice precinct in New York.”

Stiles chuckled. As they drew ever closer to the airport Stiles stomach spun and churned. Somewhere close were Peter and Chris.

“Sooo . . . how important is it that I make this plane?” he asked. The time on the radio was already twenty minutes passed the time on the ticket. Though Talia had turned back around to face the window, Stiles could see her grimace in the reflection of the cars window.

“If you get caught I can't help you,” she said honestly. “If you don't make that plane the people who want you arrested will probably find you, take you back into custody, and I won't have any say in the matter.”

Stiles flipped through the passports in the box. The one meant for him had his photo, his information, but not his name. “How did you get these?” he asked, ignoring her unsettling answer.

Talia turned back and winked. “Peter’s not the only one who can get fake ID's.”

*

The two ran down the entry way. Getting through the security gates felt painfully long as he stood there with his stomach clenched tightly in his chest. Beside him Jordan touched his shoulder reassuringly.

Going through the security line was the most stressful thirty minutes of Stiles young life. He kept himself hidden behind Jordan, who had an arm wrapped around him the entire time. Looking around most of the other travelers seemed foreign, but there was still the off chance someone would recognize him from the news. He didn't want to think about what would happen if someone did.

He smelled like anxiety and sweat. His hands were clammy. He clutched his ticket and his passport so tightly in his hand it almost hurt. Jordan just kept rubbing his back.

He pulled off his hoodie and the sunglasses and laid them in a bin. Without them he felt exposed, he felt vulnerable, he felt _scared_. Jordan kept his hand on his shoulders up until he had to walk through the metal detector. Stiles bit his lip and passed through, certain that somehow, something would set it off. He held his breath as he stepped through. There was no noise. The security agent nodded and ushered him forwards.

“You alright?” The man asked. “You don't look like you belong here.”

Stiles eyes widened. Jordan came through the metal detector a second later.

“He's a nervous flier.” Jordan explained, flashing a friendly smile. “This is actually his first time being on a plane since he was little, and he's a little anxious.” His hand resumed its place on Stiles shoulder.

The agent nodded sympathetically.

“It's alright, kid,” he comforted. “You won't even notice the plane taking off.” 

Jordan asked the man where they could find their gate, and he was polite enough to point it out to them.

Stiles gulped and nodded, gathering up his things quickly when they passed through the conveyor belt. He threw his hoodie and shoes back on in such a hurry he didn't notice for several seconds that he put his hoodie on backwards. He quickly fixed it and held his passport tightly to his chest. As he started to walk off he felt a hand that wasn't Jordan’s grasp him tightly. He whirled around in alarm.

The security agent looked down at him “Be safe, okay?” the man said genuinely, and Stiles realized he wasn't talking about the flight. There was recognition in his eyes, which flashed honey yellow in the poor florescent lighting of the airport. Stiles looked into them and nodded, wordlessly pulling away and taking Jordan’s hand.

He kept his eyes pressed to the things in front of him. He wanted to search the crowds for Chris and Peter, but they were probably already on the plane, and swiveling his head back and forth would only make him look suspicious. Jordan already stood out in his uniform pants, though he'd thrown on a forest green jacket to conceal the rest of his uniform – and left the dangerous and metal parts in the car. He tried not to look at the various alphas and omegas, wolves and humans, scuttling past them, so capable of recognizing him. His hands were shaking. Jordan kept the one held squeezed tightly. If Stiles hadn't known him his entire life he wouldn't have been able to see that the man was scared too. It only occurred to him now that if they were caught not only would he, but Jordan and Talia, would be in a tremendous amount of trouble.

Talia could lie her way out of it, as she said she would, but Jordan would go down with the ship. Without him they wouldn't have been able to get to the airport. He would certainly be tried, if not for kidnapping then for obstruction of justice.

“Hey Jordan?” Stiles asked, once they'd walked a sufficient distance towards their flight. Of course it had to be at the very end of the building. They walked at a brisk pace, hurriedly trying to make the flight they were already delayed for. He glanced around suspiciously, to make sure no one would overhear.

“Yeah?” Jordan looked down at him.

“Why are you helping me? I know you like my dad and all, but . . . the law.” Stiles smiled weakly. He had always been a notorious rule follower.

“You know the news didn't just show pictures of you before you escaped. They played the video from the rehabilitation center. The kid on the security camera wasn't my Stiles. I'd never seen you so . . .unmoving. I just remember thinking that my Stiles would never have gone with a stranger. Your father didn't raise you that way, and you're too smart to do something that stupid. But there you were, leaning on an older man’s shoulder and climbing into his car. It wasn't you. I didn't like it. I didn't like the way the workers said you were fine, and happy that way.” He grimaced distastefully. “That wasn't our Stiles.”

Stiles nodded. Everyone kept mentioning that day, but he couldn't even remember it. He shuddered to think what would have happened if a less noble person had come to take him away.

Their gate was nearly deserted as they walked up to it. Stiles felt like he was going to throw up. The plane was there, it hadn't left yet. Somewhere inside were Peter and Chris.

“You made it just in time,” the woman said, taking their boarding passes and IDs. Stiles shoulders tensed up as she scanned them.

“Hm,” the ticket taker frowned and furrowed her brow. She typed something into the computer. Stiles heart stopped. She sighed, picked up the ticket again, and scanned. Then she smiled.

“Sorry about that. Machines a little rusty,” she said, motioning towards the machine. She handed the passport back to Stiles and Jordan and nodded for them to get on the plane.

Stiles could have screamed with joy. He struggled to keep an even pace as they walked through the entryway onto the plane. The man inside nodded at them. The plane wasn't overly crowded, but still had to struggle to scan the crowds before he found the faces he was looking for.

Peter was grimacing, saying something Stiles couldn't hear but what sounded like angry words. Chris looked solemn. He nodded and said something back. They both looked miserable. 

“Chris! Peter!” Stiles shoved himself into the seat so hard he was practically on Peter’s lap. He hugged Peter so tightly his breathing caught in his throat.

“Stiles!” Chris breathed. He grabbed him back in an equally fearsome hug. Between them and their crushing embrace Peter snarled, but his arms wound tightly around Stiles waist and he shoved his face into the side of his neck, swallowing down his scent in tight gasps.

“What are you doing here?” Peter asked when they finally broke apart.

“I had help. I'll tell you about it later, right now I just want to. . . ” he struggled for the appropriate words with the biggest grin on his face.

“Breath?” Chris supplied.

Stiles laughed. “Yeah, breathe. Breathing sounds nice.”

“I don't care how, I'm just happy you are.” Peter pressed his lips to Stiles. It took Stiles brain a second to register what was happening. For a moment he just sat there, eyes wide, lips against his. Then Peter pulled away, tilting his head to one side.

Stiles face felt hot. He threw his arms around Peter and kissed him chastely. Beside them Chris chuckled. He pried them apart after a minute and claimed Stiles lips for himself.

“We were worried about you.”

“I was worried about _you_ ,” he breathed. His lips felt sore. He still didn't fully understand the appeal of kissing, but it felt like the right thing to do in the situation. His puffy lips disagreed with him, but the grin in his heart didn't.

Jordan took his place in the seat across the row from him while Peter and Chris recounted how they were released from police custody. New York recognized them as citizens, and a judge ruled that since all their papers were in order there was nothing California could do to take them. They would still have to appear before another court to maintain their citizenship, but, for now they were free. All of them were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the patience with this one. Your comments mean the world to me <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you all like it, and thanks to the lovely people who helped me edit it <3 (the tags may update as the story progresses)


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